The Prince Bride
by woodbyne
Summary: Matthew, heir apparent to the kingdom of Gaul, is of marrying age, and sets out with his best man to find himself a bride. Around this time, the Crown Prince of Albion, Alfred, has another bout of Rebellious Prince Syndrome and convinces his sister to disguise him so that he can escape his father's edicts for a few days. It's an excellent disguise, but it may have worked too well.
1. Hey Baby, I Think I Wanna Marry You

**Hi all y'all. This is a request from Anon007, for a medieval/steam-punkish AU with CanAm, FrUK and a couple of others I can't name offhand. I've gone kind of Princess Bride (hence the title) meets Atlantis the Lost Empire on this, and I've thrown in some slightly archaic modes of speech just for shits and giggles. I kind of like the idea of Matt and All not really understanding each other at first and then getting closer blah, blah, mush, flush, I'm going to have a jol with this fic! **

**ENJOY!**

Fingers tapping on his arms behind his back and eyes raised to the ceiling, Matt waited with feigned patience for the fourth herald of six to announce his name and title to the empty room before him. This consisted of much throat clearing, a trumpet and, "Ladies and Lords, for thine greatest pleasure, His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Matthew, Heir Apparent to the Kingdom of Gaul, Prince Regent and Duke of Montreal, Ga-Oh, Bear of the Northern Empire graces we humble commoners with his presence!" Six times. Each time the whole procedure took about five minutes, so all in all, it took him about half an hour before the conversation with his father could even begin.

"Your Royal Majesty, High King Francis, ruler of the land of Gaul, He Upon Whom God's Favour Shines Most Brilliant, please allow me, humble servant that I am, to present to His Majesty his son, His Royal Highness, Crown-" the bowing crier was interrupted, thankfully, before he could finish Matt's full title.

"Yes, yes, let him in, I recognise my own son! Matthieu, come, come, petit! What is it that you wish to discuss?" the King smiled down from the raised dais on which his throne sat beside its empty partner.

"You could have let him finish, Papa," the prince chided gently, "He's only doing his job."

"You'll make a fine King with that compassion of yours, but that's not what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?" Matthew had inherited Francis' face, most of his mannerisms and his hair, but his colouring came from his mother. The king's expression saddened. His beautiful wife had long since passed.

The Prince shook his head, a quiet sigh on his lips as he tried to explain without getting his father riled up, which was surprisingly easy. For all that Francis could sit through the tedium of court with an impassive face, it was quiet alarming how quickly he could become excited by something that he enjoyed.

"Your Majesty, my father, I request permission to leave the palace grounds and your kingdom for a period of time I know not how long," he knelt, his head hung low and the king clucked his tongue, rolling his eyes.

"Matthieu, if you wanted to go hunting, all you had to do was ask. There's no need for such formality, stand, please," sheepishly, the young man stood, rubbing the back of his neck, an embarrassed smile on his lips.

"It's not exactly 'hunting', Papa," Matthew cleared his throat. It was now or never. "I'm taking Gilbert as my best man and going to go find a bride. I am of marrying age after all," he gave a half-shrug.

"Matthieu!" Francis smiled fondly, "Are you sure you wish to wed?" His little boy had grown up so fast.

"Quite sure, Papa. I intend to set out at first light."

~====o)0(o====~

"I cannot believe him!" Alfred growled, slamming the door to his sister's chambers, throwing himself into an armchair besides her, where she was reapplying kohl to her eyes.

"What are you and dad arguing about this time?" Amelia sighed. Neither of them were on the best terms with their father, but at least she only frustrated him rather than deliberately disobeying him, which only made him angry.

"The market!" he fumed, "I can't go to the damn marketplace without an armed guard! How am I ever supposed to rule if my people are too afraid of my soldiers to come anywhere near me?" the young blond man blew out his lips in a sulky pout.

"How are you ever supposed to rule if you get assassinated while trying to buy cabbage?" his sister asked snidely.

"But what if no one knew it was me, it could be a secret identity!" Alfred leant over, his chin propped on his hands as he grinned at Amelia, "Pleeeaaase, Amie?" he asked, pulling a puppy face, "I really want to get to know my people!"

"Al, you got caught last time. If I dress you up again, then you're going to be barred from leaving the palace and you know it!" she protested, worried about her brother's safety. Alfred had a history of doing stupid things with good intentions, and she didn't want him getting hurt with her help.

But it wasn't like Amelia was the world's most responsible teenager either.

"So don't dress me up like you did last time," he shrugged.

"I'm running out of options here, Al," Amie sighed irritably, turning to face her petulant brother, "You've been a servant, a peasant, a stable hand, an errand boy, a messenger, a knight, a soldier, a cook, what else can you be?" she demanded, "The only thing you haven't been is a woman."

There was a pause as the twins looked at each other, almost reading each other's minds, or at least on the same wave length, because in the instant that Amelia groaned, "Noooo!"

Alfred crowed, "Yeeees!"

"No, Al! I refuse!" her voice rose in pitch as she spoke, lips set in a defiant frown. The twins would never admit it, but they were incredibly alike in both personality and looks.

"Just a few days?" he begged, "I'll bring you back something?"

Rolling her eyes, Amelia sighed, "Because _that_ will make me turn you into a girl."

~====o)0(o====~

Had Alfred had his own way, he would have crowed his happiness to the skies, but he was dressed in women's clothing, so that probably wouldn't have gone down too well. Amelia had insisted on going the whole hog with this costume – that girl didn't to things halfway. There was rouge on his cheeks and kohl irritating his eyes. And dirt. The princess had had to nick a dress off of one of the serving girls to fit him, so he had to be at least a little grubby. There was a bandana over his hair to disguise it's length and a cloak around his shoulders to disguise their width. On top of all the fabric smoke and ruffled mirrors that his sister had used to make him look like a woman, the little vixen had also roped him into a corset, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to make it so that he could barely breathe.

Still, at least he was out and about again. The morning air was fresh and clear as the prince wended his way down the packed earth road that lead to the cobbled city streets and hoverways. Hover-bikes and sky ships were pretty common-place in Albion. Here magic was the main source of energy, though Alfred was determined to find an alternate source. Magic may have been powerful, but it had certain waste elements that were undesirable – no one wants old magic hanging around. It has a nasty habit of cursing things.

Alfred had a pretty peaceful half hour, wandering around the market, watching magicians preform and alchemists work, and scientists and mechanics work side by side repairing bikes, trackers and locators. Hunters and trappers sold their furs and meats alongside one another, each trying to out-yell the other.

Buying an apple, he bit into it, savouring the crunch of fresh green skin and the sharp sweetness of it on his tongue as he watched a squadron of airships flying overhead. He loved airships, the way they moved so sedately through the skies, prows cleaving cloud like ocean-going vessels did sea spray.

"Hey there, pretty lady," a man with greasy, slicked-back hair and a yellowed smile was standing right beside the young royal, and he bit back the urge to curl his lip.

"Hello sir," he smiled back unenthusiastically, edging away from him. Unfortunately, he followed.

~====o)0(o====~

"What about her? She's smoking!" Gilbert pointed out from under the hood that kept the sun away from his eyes.

Matthew wrinkled his nose at the suggestion. The girl in question was in a flounced pink dress and was carrying a parasol in lace gloved hands. Her nose was quite firmly in the air.

"Smoking? You jest, Gil. Were I to wed her, she would be an ice princess," the prince snorted, draped over broad seat of his hover bike, enjoying the heat of the sun on his back.

The albino sighed heavily, "Your Highness, we've searched for nigh a fortnight, yet still there is no girl to please your tastes. I begin to tire of the chase."

"And frankly, dear vassal, I begin to tire of your nagging," the blond laughed, "I am honoured at your offer to be my best man, but had I know you would be this tiresome, I would have chosen another."

"Your cruelty knows no bounds, my liege. What ails you to prompt such unjustified abuse on my magnificent person?" Gilbert scoffed, rolling his eyes, though the other couldn't see him. But Matthew was ignoring him anyhow. His eyes had alighted on a pale blue dress across the cobbled square, a thick, dull cloak covering her. She was tall, strong looking. Noble.

"What of her?" he asked, noting a shock of golden-blonde hair from beneath her headscarf, "Would not she make a fine queen?"

"Oh, no. My lord, I forbid it," Gilbert snapped to attention, eyes squinted as he studied the girl his prince had pointed out. "She has the face of an ox!"

"She has a strong jaw," Matthew countered, "And a proud bearing."

"She is too tall and unseemingly built to be your consort," the Albino gestured to the girl's wide shoulders and set stance.

"She is regal," the prince's smile only grew.

"Sire, she could be a man in a dress!" Gil threw his hands into the air in desperation.

"Speak not so crudely of my future queen," Matthew said, a stern note in his voice.

"Matthew," the albino said, dropping formality in favour of getting his point across to the love-bitten royal, "She is the fucking ugliest harlot we have yet seen in all our time in Albion. Let's about and find you a Gaelic queen."

"Lookit that filth who dares approach her," the prince muttered, gunning his hover bike, which whined, a cloud of dust picking up and blinding his travelling companion in the process. It only took a short burst of speed to get him from one side of the small marketplace to the other, and cut between the lady he intended to marry and the man who seemed to be harassing her.

"What the hell?" Alfred gasped, his respiratory system refusing to function properly in the dust and the tightness of his corset.

"I would have you apologise to my lady," Matthew instructed the greasy-haired man, his tone polite, but cool.

"Wait," Al coughed, "Who said I was your-?"

"Sire, I would wish that your noble self would not charge ahead so," Gilbert snapped, arriving almost directly beside Matt's bike, boxing in the blond in the dress.

Looking up, the young prince of Albion saw red eyes and his breath caught in his throat, refusing to leave again. Starbursts exploded in front of his eyes and he fainted, falling back against the Gaulish prince's bike, making it sway and dip.

Matthew grinned ecstatically across at Gilbert while the black-haired man slunk off,

"Well! Now I shall have to wed her!"


	2. Gil, Shut Up, We All Saw It Coming

**Whoa! You guys spoil me with reviews! I'm not entirely sure why the last chapter was so funny, but I like that you like it! 1silentmouse, yoailover4lyfe, otakuprincessluna, Lillipnillilip, Zenna95, Anon007, SaraBarns, mofalle, Guest, 91RedRoses, Tsunade-chan, my amazing girlfriend, GreyMoth and Guest!**

**Mofalle; Woodbyne would just like you to know that she thinks you're awesome. **

**ALSO: I'm going to be house-sitting for the next two weeks, so I don't know how much posting I'm going to be able to do. But I will do my best!**

**~RutheLa, over and out~**

"Amelia, love, you haven't seen your brother, have you?" Arthur asked from the other end of the table. Absent was the usual chatter and banter that happened whenever the twins occupied the same room, and the bickering whenever they were with their father. Arthur could only assume that Alfred had pulled one of his escapes and would be home in a few days. The High King of Albion was sorely tempted to sigh. His children had always been too much like their parents; too rebellious and cunning with it. His late wife was so much in both of them, in their bright blue eyes, he saw her. Amelia looked so like her.

"Nope," the princess said flippantly, barely glancing at the king. It wasn't like she was going to tell her father that she'd shoved her brother into a dress and pushed him out into the great, wide world with a fond pat on the bum.

Arthur pursed his lips. Or course she'd seen him. She'd probably helped him get out of the palace walls. Amelia had always been very good at sewing, as had Alfred, much though he scoffed at the idea of a man doing needlework. It was a skill passed down from their mother – she'd always had a talent for needles. She'd made the most beautiful tapestry of the family that hung in the king's chambers. Yes, his little girl could make a disguise that would get her brother beyond he safety of their home. The king had mixed feelings about that. It was just that Alfred was so reckless. Who knew what kind of trouble he could be getting into out there?

"Very well, dear," the Englishman sighed, "If you say so."

"Your Royal Majesty, High King Arthur of Albion, on Whose Empire The Sun Never Sets, Lion of The Realm, Conqueror of All He Surveys, and Her Royal Highness, Distaff Inheritor Princess Amelia the Beautiful, Jewel of Albion, Duchess of New England, a thousand apologies from this graceless servant for interrupting the Royal meal, but you're going to want to hear this!" A messenger stumbled into the room, out of breath and red faced.

Sighing, Arthur set down his cutlery, "Speak," he said wearily, motioning at the other to get on with it.

"Your Lord and Ladyship, today while out in the marketplace, I came across two men who weren't from around here-"

"This is hardly news, messenger," Amelia interrupted, "The Empire of Albion stretches across oceans. There are many citizens from far across our lands who do not speak as we do." Arthur frowned at her,

"My Princess, hold your tongue," he cautioned sternly before turning back to the panting messenger, "Continue."

"Gauls," he gasped, "There were Gauls in the marketplace. One wore a hood so that I could not see his face, but the other wore no cape. They were nobles, my Lord. The one, I suspect, was their prince."

Amelia watched her father's fist clench white-knuckled on the table top and his jaw clench in silent fury. Biting her lip, the Princess wondered how Alfred was doing, and hoped that he was keeping well away from their southern neighbour.

~====o)0(o====~

"My liege," Gilbert yelled over the scream of their bikes as they swooped over a rolling green hill, "Are you quite sure that your intended wishes to become a princess?"

"Had you not scared her so, I should have asked," Matthew answered cheerfully, one arm around the waist of the unconscious woman in front of him, and the other on the steering-plate of the hover-bike.

"Tis no fault of mine if your heifer rejects you," the albino said airily, ramping over a hollow log, his bike roaring as he pulled it over onto a shoulder, a log and a large boulder leaning against a tree making it an ideal camping spot.

"Easy with your tongue, Gilbert," Matthew cautioned, "I have yet to see so handsome a woman in all of Gaul as she."

"Handsome indeed!" the best man breezed, rolling his eyes, "She is square of jaw and flat of chest. And how is she to bear the next Prince of Gaul with such slim hips?"

"Of course, t'would be too great an inconvenience to have you accept my choice of bride, would it not?" the prince grumbled, idling beside his vassal as the albino dismounted and began to set up camp.

"Indeed t'would," Gil answered cheerily.

Sighing in frustration, Matt powered down his bike so that it settled slowly in the dust, sliding off the machine, he scooped the unconscious figure up into his arms and made for the camp.

A frown creased Alfred's brow and he made a small noise of protest. He felt safe in an alien way, but he was still very disorientated, and the rocking motion of the other prince's walk was not helping his wooziness.

"There, there, my sweet," the Gaul murmured, laying his intended bride down on a sleeping roll, brushing her hair back with his fingertips, "All's well."

The prince of Albion smiled faintly, still not quite awake. His eyelids fluttered and he blinked owlishly. Once, twice, three times.

"_Aah_!" he yelled, scrambling backwards, away from the stranger looming over him. The stranger frowned, and from a little ways behind him, he heard someone laugh.

"Seems your bride is not nearly so enamoured with your royal self as you are with her, my prince," Gil chuckled, prompting Matthew to shoot him a poisonous glare.

"Come now, my sweet," the Gaulish prince wheedled quietly, "You have not cause for fear by my hand, nor that of my best man."

"I don't understand a word you just said," Alfred croaked, "But you'd better let me go if you know what's good for you!"

"Your sweet words incite terror, my liege," Gilbert said unhelpfully, "And she speaks with a voice of coarser grain than peasant's bread!"

"Hold your tongue, serf!" Matthew snapped, rather more loudly than he had meant to, but it seemed to do the trick. Both Alfred and Gil fell silent. The prince of Albion for a much shorter time than the albino.

"That's it," he said loudly, completely neglecting to disguise his voice or his stride, or even to try and look demure, "I am out of here. I don't care who you are or what you want with me; I'm going home!" In his frustration he scrubbed at his face so that the rouge was gone and yanked and pulled at the dress until the fabric ripped and fell away. Next was the corset's turn. He had a little more trouble with that, but he managed to find a weak spot between the bones and with an almighty rip, he was free, standing only in the breeches he had insisted in wearing underneath the dress. "You," he jabbed a finger at Matthew and Gilbert, "Are _insane_. I should have you arrested."

The two Gauls stared at the blond prince as he faced his tanned back to them and began storming away back the way they had come.

Gilbert was the first to speak.

"As loath as I am, sire, to remind you of my warning, I did tell you that she had the look of a man in a dress," he sputtered, trying to calm the laughter that threatened to have him rolling around on the grass.

"She makes no less handsome a man as he did a woman," Matthew said slowly, as though he were thinking very carefully about something, "Indeed more handsome by far," he added quietly, eyes lingering on the line of Alfred's thighs and the slope of his shoulders and the way the sunlight made is golden skin and hair glow.

"Your Highness," red eyes widened, "I implore you, turn back, find a Gaulish bride. Think of your kingdom."

"I am. Would he not make a fine consort to a king? Is he not fair, exotic and proud? He would make a fine consort, I should think. Beside, father shan't mind. Many a male lover has graced his arm since mother died," the prince shrugged.

"But none has he wed!" Gilbert protested. It was true that King Francis had had his share of men to bed in the fourteen years since his queen had passed, but he had never remarried.

"My mind is set," the blond gave a careless smile and swung a leg over his bike, starting it up and kicking up a storm-cloud of dust as he sped off after the half-naked man.

"There are few men on this earth tasked with a quest as unpleasant as this," Gil groaned, flopping back and waiting for the pair to return – whether one of them would come willingly or not was the question.

~====o)0(o====~

It didn't take very long for the Gaul to catch up to his intended, fishtailing his bike across the dirt road to block his path.

"Good God," Alfred groaned moodily, "Are you stupid or just persistent?" A dark scowl clouded his features as he glowered at his pursuer.

"My, you of Albion have a manner of speech most queer," Matthew laughed, reaching out a hand for the other to take. The blue-eyed man crossed his arms over his head and looked away.

"Leave me alone, or do you think you're going to kidnap me?" Alfred asked snippily.

"I am Matthew," the Gaul said slowly, tripping a little over the anglicised pronunciation, his hand still outstretched as though to shake.

Warily, the previously-skirted man looked up at the man on the bike – who didn't appear to be going away despite his best attempts to ignore him – "I'm Alfred; Alfred K- Alfred F Jones," he quickly amended, if this was a kidnapping attempt, it wouldn't do to let them know he was royalty, "A merchant's son."

"What need has a merchant's son for a skirt?" Matthew asked, completely confused, and when he received only a questioning look for his inquiry, he tried again , "Why were you in a dress?"

"I lost a bet," Al glowered again. There were worse questions he could have answered, he supposed.

"Very well," Matt said simply, satisfied with that answer, "Alfred," Stupid Gaul saying his name in that stupid accent, the 'merchant's son' groused to himself, "I would like for you to marry me."

Had something been lost in translation? Very, very lost, "Excuse me?" Al asked incredulously, "You want me to _marry_ you?"

"Yes," Matthew answered simply, a quiet smile on his lips, and Alfred had to admit that he wasn't bad looking. But still! He wasn't going to marry someone who had just kidnapped him!

"No!" the golden-blond frowned, "Absolutely not! I _refuse_!"

The Gaul's smile faltered and he sighed, "I had so hoped that you would not answer thus."

"Wait, what-? _Hey_!" Alfred's confusion was cut short as Matthew grabbed his arm and hoisted him up onto the bike, one arm vice-like around the wiggling prince's waist as he gunned the engine and sped back down the road. The velocity of the bike was beginning to make the blue-eyed man feel sick, "You can't do this!" he protested, head swimming.

"I may do as I wish; I am a prince," Matthew whispered in his ear, just audible over the roar of the bike. They were pressed close together, the Gaul's chest flush against Alfred's back and his chin on the Albionic prince's shoulder.

"Oh," Alfred said, "_Shit_."


	3. You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

**Anon007, GreyMoth, 1silentmouse, emismpunk, K-Oojousama, 91RedRoses, Yummi-Tsubato, Kinny-The-Hero, Lillipnillilip , yaoilover4lyfe, Cynmia, easha, Smiley doctor, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior and Guest and Lilly. **

**I'm housesitting in a part of town where you could, oh, I don't know… Go out to buy a can of spray paint for your cosplay, and come home with a… gosh, let's see, a tattoo? **

**Story. Of. My. Life. **

**But at least it's pretty and it should stop bleeding by Saturday, and it didn't hurt at all! Oh well, cosplay competition on Saturday; wish me luck! Thank you so much to everyone for your support! **

Alfred had discovered his motion sickness at age seven, when he vomited all over the royal carriage, his father and sister in the middle of a parade. And he rediscovered it at age nineteen when he was kidnapped by a crazy Gaul, hell-bent on putting a ring on his finger.

"I _haaaate_ yoooou," he moaned, face down in the grass back at the camp Gil had set up while Alfred had had his tantrum. The earth was swinging around on its axis and the prince of Albion felt sick to his stomach, eyes clenched shut.

"I have much faith in your ability to conquer this emotion," Matthew said cheerily, lying on his stomach, his chin in his cupped palm as he watched the other man clutching the ground.

"Well you can take that faith and shove- _Oh God,_" he complained as another wave of dizziness crashed over him, petering out into a keening whine.

"There, there, chuck-" Matt reached over to pet Alfred's hair, which seemed like sunshine and honey made solid – though hopefully less sticky – but was stopped by a poisonous glare from a baleful, sky-blue eye.

"Don't you touch me," Alfred growled venomously, "Now who the _hell_ is Chuck?"

"Who is-?" the Gaul burst into laughter, his fingers threading through soft blond hair in spite of the warning, tucking stray strands behind his ears, "Have you not pet names in Albion?"

"I'm not your pet!" the undercover prince snapped indignantly, feeling well enough to push himself up onto his elbows and face his captor properly.

"No, no, do not misunderstand," Matthew shook his head, a few locks of hair working their way out of his horse-tail and hanging around his face. Al wondered if everyone in Gaul wore their hair that long, "A pet name…" he trailed off, "A name that one might call their sweetheart?"

"_Oooh_," a look of dawning comprehension crossed Alfred's features, and the other prince thought it sweet, "You mean an endearment?"

"This is like a pet name, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm not your sweetheart," Now that he was over his motion sickness and wasn't being chased around or transported on a hover-bike like so much baggage, Alfred got a good look at the Gaul. The hair that had formed wings around his face was reddish-blond and wavy; his eyes were a dark, almost purplish-blue and his skin was the opaque colourlessness as the frost he found on his windows on cold mornings. Over all, he wasn't bad looking.

"Tis true that we have not yet formally courted, _mais_, that is a matter of time," Matthew shrugged at his new consort, who looked like sunshine and clear summer skies.

Alfred sighed, hanging his head, "This is _not_ how we do things in Albion…" the pale prince's interest perked at that,

"Then how is it that things are done in Albion? Father proclaims the lot of you barbarous and says not a word further on the matter," perhaps he could win over his reluctant bride that way?

"Well, for starters, we'd have a conversation first, and get to know each other. Then if we both like each other, you would ask my father for my hand," realising that he had cast himself as the girl, Alfred quickly amended, "Or I would ask your father for your hand. And if either of them agreed, we could get married. A _long time_ after we met."

Matthew's eyebrows arched in his scepticism, "You _cannot_ be serious. How uninspired! Such practise is too clinical. Does it aim to remove the romance from love?"

"Because kidnapping is so much better!"

"Tisn't kidnap, chuck, tis instinct. In the very instant I laid eyes on you did I know I had to have you." Alfred blinked, going a bit red and flicking invisible hairs from his face.

"You don't think you're in love with me, do you?" the blue-eyed blond asked, quite horrified at the prospect.

"No," Matthew smiled, looking down, "But I should think I will fall very much in love with you."

"Oh," it was all Alfred could say. What else was he _supposed_ to say? His father had never forced an arrangement onto him, and he'd never courted because he couldn't stand the noble ladies. Having someone tell him that they were going to fall in love with him was disconcerting to say the least.

"Do you not think you could perhaps love me?" the Gaul smiled encouragingly, and the prince of Albion turned his face away from that smile. It was too warm to come from a man who looked like he was made of ice.

"I've never been in love before, how should I know?" he muttered at the grass.

"_Never_?" Matthew sounded positively horrified by the idea.

"Never _ever_," Alfred said haughtily, scaring himself a little with how much he sounded like his father.

"Come now, surely in your heart of hearts there has been someone you have desired?" Matt got to his feet, holding out a hand to help the other blond up, only to have it ignored, "Someone you have wished to hold, to kiss, to cherish?" His only answer was a dumb shake of sunny gold locks. "Here, take my hands."

Alfred looked warily at those open, pale palms, hesitantly he put his hands against them. One hand's fingers were immediately locked together with Matthew's, while the other was placed on the Gaul's pale cheek, and the indigo-eyed prince's hand came to rest against Alfred's neck, stroking the soft, white-gold hair at the nape of his neck.

"Okay," the blue-eyed blond looked around a little nervously, "This is too close for comfort."

"Your heart beats apace and your body trembles," Matthew said quietly.

"I'm not shaking!" Alfred denied, pulling away slightly, "What the hell- mmph!" he was silenced by a pair of soft, insistent lips against his own, and the prince of Albion did the first thing he could think of.

He kneed Matthew in the Crown Jewels.

One prince went down with a groan and the other bolted, barely registering the dirt beneath his feet as he ran back up the path. There was a not-entirely-unpleasant burning sensation in his lips, as though he had been sucking ice on a too-hot day. Alfred looked up at the sky; there was a large, dark thunderhead rolling towards him. Once it started raining, it would wash away his footprints, and they wouldn't be able to track him. His breath was harsh in his lungs as he crested another hill and heard the low rumble of thunder at the same time as he felt the first fat droplet hit his bare shoulder and fall to earth – immediately followed by thousands of its kith and kin. In minutes he was soaked, but continued to walk on, slightly more confident in his escape.

~====o)0(o====~

It was well into the storm and the night when Alfred saw his shadow in front of him, framed by a bouncing blue light. Over the thunder and rattle of rain, he barely made out the roar of a hover bike.

His first instinct was to run, but the bike was on him before he could make the first step. Matthew was soaked, and his face was grim. His hair was auburn with water and hung in rat-tails about his face, clothes sticking to his skin. Alfred didn't imagine that he looked much better; shivering, half-dressed, muddy and drenched.

"Cease your resistance!" the Gaul had to yell to be heard over the storm, holding out his hand to help Alfred onto the bike, "I mean you no harm!"

"You mean to marry me!" Alfred shot back testily, folding his arms across his chest.

"Have you any notion of what that entails?" was the sharp reply.

"No!" Alfred yelled back, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He had no idea what marriage meant. His mother had died when he was three, so he had no memories of his parents together, and all the married couples he had ever seen seemed to bicker constantly.

"_Then you are ignorant of love_!" Matthew's angry words were echoed in a rolling clap of thunder.

"And you want to teach me, is that it?" What a nerve this one had on him, "You kidnap me and steal my first kiss all for the sake of teaching me about love?"

"Your first?" the Gaul's tone was softer now, and his hand lowered slightly.

"Yes! You took it! Without my permission!" it was Alfred's turn to rage with the thunder and lightning, "_Why_?"

"You are like the summer," Matthew's words were quieter still, and the prince of Albion had to press himself up right against the bike to hear him, "Warm and without malice. You are beautiful to me. I had hoped that a summer princess would melt the ice prince, but if you truly would rather not wed me, I shall return you to the bosom of your family when the storm passes."

They didn't speak for a moment, just listening to the rain splashing into the mud. With a sigh, Alfred took Matthew's hand, "Help me up, then."

The Gaul pulled his intended up onto the hover bike and shifted back so that the other blond could sit in front of him. As the machine started to move, Matthew's arms once more snaked around the price of Albion's waist.

Alfred couldn't help but notice, as he was pulled against the other's chest, that though his shirt was dripping wet and cold, the skin beneath it was warm.


	4. Don't Make Me Wet Just Make Me Hot

**K-Oojousama, emismpunk, 91RedRoses, Haraways, GreyMoth, my amazing girlfriend, yaoilover4lyfe, Lillipnilillip and kittens-everywhere; Thank you all so much for your kind reviews! **

**I used 'chuck' as a nickiname, because in Shakespeare's **_**Macbeth**_**, Macbeth calls Lady Macbeth chuck. It's like dear, only chuck. Also I fucking love Shakespeare. I'm trying **_**so**_** hard to leave out 'thee, thou, thy, thine' in the dialogue. Among other things. I can write quite fluently in Shakespearean English. **

**Sorry this is so short, I'm in cosplay crunch time right now. Wish me luck!**

The royal pair was shivering violently by the time they returned to the camp, where Gilbert was seated beside a fire in the space between the tree and the leaning boulder. It made for a fairly cosy camp, if smoky, because Gil had made it a little more water-tight by roping canvas over one entrance.

Powering down the bike, Matthew helped a slightly nauseous Alfred to the shelter.

"Strip," he said shortly, moving to rummage through his packs.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." The sodden blond said flatly, arms wrapped tightly across his chest, though he might as well have been rubbing ice against his skin for all the good it did to warm him up.

"You object as though you are not already indecently clothed. What little you wear is drenched. Take it off or catch your death of cold," Matthew hurled a blanket and a shirt at the other prince before beginning to shed his own dripping clothes. Gilbert, in the meanwhile, poked at a pot of something over the fire, which crackled pleasantly.

Alfred wrapped the blanket around his shoulders so that he didn't expose any more of his body than he already had, shed his breeches and slung them over a rock in front of the fire to dry. Matthew did the same. Sitting down, the supposed merchant's son let the blanket pool around his waist for a moment before pulling the sturdy cotton shirt over his head. It smelt sharp, like pine sap and winter snows, but there was something sweet underlying it. It smelt nice.

Suddenly very aware that he was sniffing someone's shirt, Alfred pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders and stared into the fire, the flames searing themselves into his corneas and leaving the skin of his face baked in dry heat.

"What did you mean, 'a summer princess to melt the ice prince?' And by the by, I'm a _man_," the golden-blond asked quietly, feeling better now that his hair was dry and he was warm again.

When no reply was forthcoming, he looked over to see Matthew asleep, pale lashes touching his cheeks, pink lips parted and hair fallen messily over his face. It was sweetly disarming, especially when compared to the way he had towed Alfred along earlier.

"He's fallen asleep without supper again," the hooded figure on the other side of the fire sighed, handing Alfred a bowl of the stew he had been cooking, "Did he really say that?"

"You speak Anglic!"The prince said delightedly, and then his smile dropped clean off his face, "And you have red eyes."

"Clever, aren't you? I told Matthew not to choose you, but then I just thought you were an ugly woman. Now I know you're trouble. Now what did he say about being an ice prince?" Gilbert sighed, eating his own food while he waited for a reply.

"It just seems odd, because you're a Gaul," Alfred muttered, "And I'm not ugly. He just said, 'I hoped a summer princess would melt the ice prince,' but I have no idea what he was talking about."

"I'm Germanic; my mother tongue is closer to yours than that of my lord," From the shadows, the prince could feel himself being given a once over, "You'll do," seemed a little harsh, but at least he wasn't deemed hideous. A sigh wafted from the hood, "It's the name they have for him at court. The prince very rarely smiles at anyone but myself and his father, and it's more uncommon still for him to laugh. He is kind, but the people very rarely see that because he is uncomfortable around crowds, so the nobles call him the Ice Prince, and the people do too. They think it's funny because his mother was a northerner, and he was raised amidst much ice and snow. It's only these past five years that he's stayed in Gaul with any kind of permanency. I think he hopes that if the people see him with a bride who can keep him from withdrawing in on himself-"

"Gilbert," Matthew had sat up unnoticed and had narrowed his eyes at the whispering duo, "I've oft warned you; tis impolite to speak of those present as though they are not."

"Highness," the hooded man completely ignored the scolding he was given, handing over a bowl of stew, "We were just speaking of you!"

"So much I did gather," was the dry response. Setting aside his bowl, Alfred spoke,

"My parents are of Albion," he said carefully, trying to imitate Gaulish speech patterns, "But I and my sister were born in a land far to the north, different to yourself in that there was much sun. Mother fell ill while carrying us and travelled there for her health. There was I born and there shall I … Oh, screw it. It's my home. I don't really like it here; it's always grey and it rains too much. It's miserable."

Matthew nodded his agreement, "There is no weather as damnable as rain."

"Oh, lookit you," Gilbert cooed, clasping his hands and tipping his head to the side like some kind of love-sick maiden, "So much in common. I dare say the wedding shall be soon? And how soon after should we expect the patter of royal feet?"

"Is he always like this?" Alfred asked Matthew.

"Unfailingly," the Gaulish prince answered with a yawn, setting aside his bowl, "Come now, let's to bed." He gestured to two bed rolls side by side, climbing into one and patting the one beside it. The one that meant if he wanted to get out of the shelter, Alfred would have to climb over Matthew. Clever.

Once he was settled, Matthew held out a pale hand, palm open and wanting once more, "Take my hand," he offered. The prince of Albion was having none of this.

"Last time I took your hand, you kissed me. I'm not stupid enough to do that again."

"You kissed him?" Gilbert piped up, "No wonder he kicked you in the-"

"On my kingdom," the Gaul said loudly, blocking out the rest of the albino's sentence, "I swear I shall not kiss you again without your permission."

"Oh…kay…" Alfred said slowly, nervously and with jerky movements, placing his palm against Matthew's. They had callouses in the same places from holding a sword, and their skin made an odd contrast of tan and pale. Sunlight and moonshine. Before he could blink, there was a rope binding their hands together, and the Gaul's smile was vulpine when he looked up, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Alfred's hand.

"After all the trouble I went through to get you warm and dry, t'would be a shame to let my efforts go to waste, would it not?" the prince of Albion seethed, glaring daggers at the man he was bound to. "We shall set out in the morning once the storm has passed."

Alfred couldn't help but laugh at that, "You can tell you're not from around here."


	5. I Thought I Told You Not To Fuck!

**Watergoddesskasey, 91RedRoses, Anon007, my awesomesause girlfriend, GreyMoth, Lillipnillilip (I apologise; I can never read your name, and I think I spell it differently every time), lilly, K-Oojusama, RasalynnLynx, Yumi-Tsubato and starrenPI, thank you all!**

**Also; StarrenPI, your review wins all the awards. You made me alugh so hard!**

**In other news: Manada. I forgot to add that to the warnings in the first chapter, but it was part of the request that Matt be politely barbaric (or at least that was my interpretation.) And the Chapter title was a song I had stuck in my head, so I'm sorry for giving you the wrong idea. **_Don't make me wet, don't wanna make love in the shower~ Just turn me on~_

"Your Majesty, I really don't think that that this is such a good idea," a valet said, hands fluttering uselessly, and looking more than a little panic-stricken as Arthur strode up the gang-plank of an air-ship. One of the Royal Air Fleet, to be exact.

"And why not?" The king answered snippily, a formidable eyebrow quirked in question, and the attendant cowered back. On the first day, Arthur had been resigned. On the second day, he had been irritable. On the third day, he had been impatient. On the fourth day, he became anxious, and by the fifth day of Alfred's absence, the king could no longer keep still, constantly tapping his feet or fingers in his worry.

"It's storming?" his attendant offered up, wishing that he hadn't said anything at all.

"I've steered a ship through worse things than this," the blond said dismissively, green eyes flashing in the lightning that raged around them, "And you seem to forget that the prince, _my son_, is out there in that storm when there are _Gauls_ running around my kingdom!" Arthur's voice rose to a roar, and with a quick bow and a 'yesyourmajesty!' the attendant excused himself to go hyperventilate in a corner.

"Dad…" Amelia began guiltily. She was standing on the dock, valets holding a giant umbrella over her head.

"Amelia, dearheart," he softened slightly, "I hope you see the reason I do not let your brother go gallivanting off by himself, and I encourage you to be as cautious in future. There are easier methods of fratricide."

"I wasn't trying to kill him!" she yelled back indignantly, "He just wanted to get out of the palace for a day!"

"I know," Arthur hung his head. He knew Alfred wanted freedom and glory. He wanted to make the empire even better than his father had. And Arthur wanted to give him his freedom, too. But the young prince was still so hot-headed. It would serve him ill.

Shaking the thoughts and rain away, the king marched to towards his crew, "Set a course for Gaul! Double speed! "

~====o)0(o====~

"I _detest_ the rain," Matthew muttered into his knees, watching grey cloud after grey cloud release its deluge onto the land.

Too see the gaulish prince doing something childish was… Alfred snickered behind his hand. It was just damn hilarious. And kind of adorable, what with the way his brow furrowed over those oddly coloured eyes. Which really were rather lovely. And the way his hair – released from its thong – curled damply to his shoulders. His hair was nice colour, too. There actually wasn't anything about Matthew, really, that didn't remind Alfred of wintertime and sunsets. Beautiful things. Matthew was.. he supposed… from an objective standpoint … rather… handsome.

"It's not so bad, your Highness," it was sort of fun to call someone else that, "It's only been five days. In another week or so, you might be quite fond of it."

Matthew's head rose as the other blond moved to sit beside him, tilted quizzically before Alfred's words sunk in, and an expression of utmost disgust passed across his features, "Another week yet? Whomever would suppose so fair a face capable of such cruelty? Prithee, chuck, admit to jest!"

"Hang on, wha-?" Alfred began, only to have Gilbert break out into Anglic,

"Are you fucking kidding me? Another _week_ of this? Can we just get _out_ of this accursed country already?" the hooded man stormed, waving his hands frantically, "I shall hasten to see what state of disrepair has been wrought on the roads. Make no attempts to continue the royal line in my absence!"

"It's still raining!" the prince of Albion began while Matthew flushed to the tips of his ears,

"Vile confederate! I would you drown!" the Gauish prince called after the retreating cloak, but his voice was lost in the rain.

"Your Highness-"

"We reside not in court, nor do I hold you in any disregard, chuck. T'would be a favour I would gladly repay were you to call me by my given name," Matthew laughed, a little drily.

"Matthew," Alfred tried the name out, liking the way it felt on his tongue, "That's a bit of a mouthful. Matt," shorter, nicer still, but a mat was a carpet, "Mattie!" he decided. It sounded sweet, which the other prince had been in these past few days, so it suited him nicely.

And Mattie had been sweet. Aside from tying their hands together each night, he was kind, a little soft-spoken, almost abashed. Which made Gilbert roll his eyes, and I the few moments that the hooded man and the captured prince had been alone, the albino had flat out said that Matthew was trying to impress Alfred.

And damn if it wasn't working.

"Mattie?" the Gaul asked, head tipped to the side, a stray curl bouncing endearingly in front of his nose, "Curious. None hath before thought to call me that," he paused for a moment, smile faltering, "None ha- no one has been allowed to," he sighed a little, resting his head back on his arms, making a concerted effort to speak Anglic for his new friend. Even if a friend was all he was.

Alfred looked at him, really looked. Matthew's personality seemed almost entirely obscured by royal persona, so that it was practically invisible. But around Gilbert, he laughed, and joked, rough-housed, acted like a normal young man, and around Alfred, he was sweet, and thoughtful. Five days wasn't a very long time, but it was time enough to think. More than enough time, if you happened to be a rash, impulsive teenage prince with blue eyes and a nose for the deepest pile of shit to get yourself stuck in.

The prince of Albion shifted slightly closer to the Gaul, remembering lips against his. That had felt nice, even if it had seriously surprised him. And he could see it in his mind's eye. They would look good together, and Mattie looked so much better when he smiled. It would be… wonderful, actually, to be the summer prince that melted the ice prince.

"Well, it would make sense for your consort to be allowed to," Alfred said nonchalantly, leaning against the Gaul's shoulder.

"_Beg pardon_?" Matthew asked incredulously, head snapping around to see the other's face.

"I want to go back to Gaul with you," the prince of Albion said, more enamoured with his decision the more he thought about it. "I'll melt the ice prince."

"So you would wed a prince?" the Gaul asked warily, not sure if he should trust this change of heart, "Does the prospect of a title please you? Or perhaps the thought of a palace's riches?"

Alfred frowned, "There is no title that would please me less as that of a royal, and the riches of your palace would not hold my eye," he answered truthfully, if slowly, stumbling over his words as he spoke like the other would. It was easier, if just a little more creative, when they spoke in their native dialects.

"Then what would charm the summer to my court?" Matthew asked, still suspicious.

"A man who claims he can teach me about love, and a kiss," Alfred looked away, eyes anywhere but the other teen.

"Then it is my body you lust for?" the prince laughed, slightly more at ease, and mostly just poking fun at the other.

"What is a body without a soul?" the prince of Albion looked to Matthew's face, intending to elbow him in the ribs and laugh a little, but there was a tender expression on the other prince's face that made him pause. Twisting slightly, he leant in and kissed Matt's cheek.

"Does this mean I am permitted to once more taste your lips?" the Gaul asked quietly, and in answer to his question, Alfred leant in again, kissing the other prince full on the lips.

Their lips barely parted for a moment before Matthew was kissing him again, unfolding from his closed off posture and wrapping his arms around the blue-eyed blond, bringing them closer as he pulled gently at the other's lower lip, tracing the seam of Alfred's mouth with his tongue and begging it to open for him, which it did, hesitantly, allowing the Gaul his slow, cautious exploration.

Alfred could be seriously thick about some things, but he was a quick-study on most subjects, and it didn't take him more than a second to figure out what Matthew was doing and copy him, a sound of surprise resonating from his own mouth and one of pleasure from the Gaul's as their tongues touched.

"Well, my liege, it seems good fortune has shown us mercy, for the dark skies do clear, but the pass has fallen victim to a mud-" Gilbert froze, "Did I not with most specific instruction forbid you from copulating?" he asked, "Mighty mother above, you were given a _single_ task!"

~====o)0(o====~

"Your Royal Majesty, King Franci-"

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"An airship, my lord, an airship flying the royal colours of Albion has just docked outside the palace walls, and there is a man who claims himself High King Arthur who demands an audience with your most noble self and he does follow in my own warm footsteps!" the messenger babbled, thoroughly out of breath.

"Stop this nonsense and step aside," Arthur said curtly, sweeping along behind the messenger, and brushing past him, nose firmly in the air,

"Ah, Your Majesty, to what is your displeasure, so that I may thank it for this impromptu visitation? Though I had so hoped you might send word before your coming," Francis said, his smile strained as he did his best to be polite in face of the man that he alternately wanted to pin up against a wall with his body or a knife.

"Where's my son, Bonnefoy?" the King of Albion demanded, striding forward until he and Francis were only a few paces apart.

"Then you have misplaced yours also?" the Gaul replied smoothly.


	6. Dirty Little Secrets

**Guest, akira-nox, starrenPI, Lillipnillip, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, 91RedRoses, Tamagoakura, GreyMoth, K-Ojousama, watergoddesskasey, 1silentmouse, my luverly girlfriend and the one who started all this; Anon007. Thanks guys, for spoiling me with love.**

**Gilbert Beilschmidt: Royal Cockblock.**

Matthew was, in a word, smug. Incredibly smug. It might not have been obvious to everyone, but Gilbert had known the Gaulish prince for a very long time, and well, Alfred would have had to have been a rock to not notice Matthew's particular brand of _smug_.

The indigo-eyed prince would sit a little too close, they would touch a little too much for it to be accidental, and Matthew's personal space bubble seemed to have retracted to some point inside his body. This was all very well and good, but the sole purpose of this experiment seemed to be to make Alfred blush. Mission accomplished, passed with flying colours, aced.

"I should think you would find Gaul much to your liking, chuck. It has about it a less gloomy air than your country, there is less rain," the Gaul's mouth quirked in longing. He was sick of the rain, "And I should hope that would please you."

Alfred's lips slip into a boyish grin as he helped pack the last of the supplies onto the back of the powered down hover bike. True to Gilbert's earlier prediction (the one he made before launching into a half-hour lecture as to why the heir of the Gaulish kingdom should not be caught making the beast with two backs in the middle of a rainstorm in Albion. To his credit, the albino made some credible points and only proclaimed his own inherent superiority twice.) "Really?" The Prince of Albion asked, as excitable as ever, "That's awesome. But I am seriously going to have to teach you some new endearments, because being called 'chuck' is really beginning to confuse me."

"Would another Gaulish pet name not suit your tastes, fair Alfred?" Matthew smiled sweetly, pulling the mooring rope taut over the luggage, keeping it firmly in place.

"I don't know any other Gaulish pet names," the other blond shrugged, swinging his arms up and folding his hands behind his head, noting with a little smile how the Gaul's eyes dropped to the slice of golden midriff that appeared when his shirt rode up.

Almost completely distracted by the thought of what that smooth, tan skin would feel like beneath his lips, it took that statement a moment to register in Matthew's mind.

"Would you care for an education, _chuck_?" he teased, winking.

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that," Alfred rolled his eyes at the irritating name.

"Very well; as it seems you are most eager to see your new home, and less so, I should think, to speak this tongue of mine, I shall tell you as we travel. Mayhap t'would pass the time and keep your mind from sickness." There was something devious in the darkness of Matthew's eyes that made Alfred think warily of when he had tied their hands the first time. But it was a nice enough sentiment, so agreeing couldn't be all bad. Besides, it was ride with Matt, or on the back of Gilbert's bike with the luggage.

"I hope this works," the prince of Albion sighed, climbing aboard the bike's broad seat. This was the part he had been dreading since he had agreed to marry Matthew – still a distant and alien prospect, but an oddly exciting one – the ride back to Gaul. On a speeding hover-bike. Ugh.

"I have much faith, pet, that I shall be more than capable of keeping your mind otherwise occupied," Alfred may have missed the smirk on Matthew's lips, but he had hear it, and as if that wasn't clear enough, the fact that the Gaul had swung himself up behind the other blond and had his hands on his thighs certainly removed any possible ambiguity as to how he intended to keep Alfred entertained.

"_Petit chaton_," Matthew whispered against Alfred's ear, making him shiver, "Is perhaps more to your pleasure?"

"Nope," the Gaulish prince's hands were carefully removed from the blue-eyed prince's legs, "Sorry, Mattie, that one doesn't work for me."

"_Mon ange_?" he tried again, one arm wrapping snuggly around Alfred's waist and the other sliding down the thigh it had just been removed from and to the control panel, turning the machine they were astride on.

"Close, but not quite," the other prince wiggled slightly at the touch, and the man behind him chuckled softly.

"_Mon amour_?" Matthew murmured, lips against Alfred's skin as they lurched into the air.

"I like that one," the Albionic prince had his eyes tight shut and was trying not to focus on the way his stomach churned as he felt the bike accelerate. He tried to focus instead on how his back was pressed up against Matthew's warm chest, the way the other prince's thighs were squeezing against his hips. And the way the Gaul pressed little kisses against his neck was certainly a distraction, "What does it mean?"

"My love," Matthew had to speak a little louder to be heard over the mechanical whine beneath them.

"Oh," Alfred paused, well, why not? They were going to spend the rest of their lives together, it would make sense to have endearments like that floating around. But at the same time, it made him feel a little tingly inside. He'd never been someone's love before. Except his father's and Arthur called his wolf-hounds 'love' too, so it didn't count. "Well, we are going to be married."

"Which does give me cause for question, _mon amour_," the emphasis Matthew put on the epithet put a stupid, silly grin on the other golden-blond's face, "Why is it that you shy from my touch?" Pale fingers stroked over the fabric of Alfred's borrowed shirt, seeking the skin beneath, only to have the prince of Albion suck in his stomach to avoid contact. "Does my appearance displease you? Or are you unused to such affections from a man?" There was a note of insecurity in the voice that spoke in his ear, and Alfred's hand laid itself carefully over the one at his waist.

"Don't be silly, Mattie," the other huffed, his face screwing up as they jolted over a rock, "I find your appearance to be very pleasing. But I'm not used to being touched like that at all. It's nice, and everything, but still a bit strange."

"You jest," Matthew scoffed lightly, his chin resting on Alfred's shoulder, "Surely so lovely a thing as yourself has held at least one lover?"

"No, really," he insisted, "Never. I told you that was my first kiss. I've never been so much as interested in anyone else before."

"No brothels, then, for the merchant's son? No courtesans to sate your need?" Matthew's voice was both surprised an honestly curious, and Alfred would have squirmed embarrassedly if he wasn't sure it would have tipped the bike over.

"You know, I never really had a _need_ up until now, so that wasn't a problem. Besides, even if I wanted to, which I didn't," there were poppies along the roadside that weren't as red as Alfred's cheeks, "It wouldn't be proper. It's customary to stay a virgin until marriage in Albion."

"Chaste until wedlock!" the Gaul marvelled, "How peculiar you of Albion are, greatly enamoured though I am with the prospect of sullying your virginal status." Alfred sputtered like a candle in a high wind, "Would you like that_, mon amour_?" There was laugher in that purr, and the captured prince didn't know whether to sulk or egg his captor on. Matthew took the silence as encouragement, making the decision for him, "I shall be thrilled to be the first to bed you. It would be a great honour to be the first to spread those lovely legs of yours, to open you up and pluck," the Gaul's fingers danced across Alfred's stomach to illustrate his point, "At every raw nerve you possess, mon amour, until you are so _thick_ with need" his hand trailed teasingly downwards until he was sure that his message had gotten across, "That your wanting lips will beg for me to take you, body and soul."

"You have the face of an angel and the mouth of a whore," the prince of Albion muttered sullenly. His whole face was flushed, and he wished he was pretty much anywhere on earth that was not rubbing up against his betrothed with every dip and rise of the land.

"Denial suits you ill, my love," Matthew chuckled quietly, turning Alfred's chin , "You wish to know what other things my whore's mouth can do, do you not? Do not fret. I do intend to show you precisely why they are called the _pleasures_ of the flesh." The Gaul's lips were curved into a smile as they met the other's in a warm kiss.

"_My Lord!" _Gilbert yelled, "_Eyes on the road!_"

~====o)0(o====~

"For all the wars that have passed between us, I find you to be remarkably agreeable company, Arthur," Francis said with a smile. It might have been the common ground of both having their sons missing, it may have been relief that there would be no more war today, and it may have been the wine that was flowing like aqua vitae between them, but the two kings were getting on, for once.

"It's true, I was expecting someone more… less." The King of Albion admitted sheepishly, taking another sip of alcohol, "My late wife, I think, would have loved you. Then, perhaps it is best she never met you." A bitter chuckle.

"Ah, once more, we find ourselves at common ground," the Gaul said, eyes flicking to the empty throne that had been his wife's, "My Madeline would have found you entertaining companionship."

"I'm sorry to hear of her passing. Sometimes I thing that if Marianne were still hear, Alfred wouldn't go running off all the time," Arthur sighed, eyes cast into his goblet as Francis drank again.

"Matthieu would be less withdrawn, I think, if his mother were here. He and her shared a very special bond," they agreed point for point.

"They could use another parent, but I can't bring myself to find a new queen," the King of Albion's shoulders were slumped, ever so slightly in his seat.

"She need not be a queen, _cher_ Arthur, a lover would give you as much satisfaction, and the children a mother figure. Without necessitating a coronation," Francis' eyes trailed sidelong over the green-eyed king, the sharp line of his jaw, the proud, straight line of his nose, and those lips, too often pursed in worry or anger, but lovely to look at all the same. The slope of his shoulders and the lines of his chest were poorly disguised beneath the barest of royal finery.

"It's been just the children and I for so long," the younger king sighed, "I don't suppose they would take kindly to it. And I depend on them, more, I suspect than they depend on me."

"Then perhaps," there was something in Francis' voice that made Arthur look up to find bright blue eyes much closer than he had anticipated. It was probably those eyes that did it, they were so bright, so beautifully blue, "It is time to find another dependence. The children are young yet, and unable to fully understand an old man's sorrows. Seek solace elsewhere. Seek it where it is offered."

It was sound advice, but Arthur wasn't really focusing on the 'good advice' thought as their lips met, parted and met again, but rather, 'Great Goddess, he tastes so _good_.'


	7. Like Father Like Whore-Mouthed Son

**Yaoilover4lyfe, Milady, ncalkins, 91RedRoses, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, Anon007, mofalle, Yumi-Tsubato (FrUk for you dearie~), K-Ojousama, Tamagoakura, GreyMoth, akira-nox, iLovelyJulz, Lillipnillilip, brokenangel96, StarrenPI and Suzume Bachii Taichi (all hail Sesshoumaru-sama!) thank you so much, guys, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting!**

**I have **_**finally**_** discovered that the correct name for the tribe that inhabited Albion at the time, was the Celts. This has been bugging me for 6 chapters. Also, I had major writer's block with this thing. I've been sitting on 200 words for weeks now, and tonight I just said, "Fuck this; shit is getting done." 2, 300 words later; shit got done.**

**Thank you Lillipnillilip, for the chapter title. **

They had snuck like giggling teenagers through the palace to Francis' private chambers, delirious on their own mischief. Breathless kisses passed between the two kings, sweet and wicked. Together they tripped over each other's feet and onto a plush carpet. The air knocked from their lungs, their hands came to play, caressing, squeezing, teasing; eliciting moans and further gasps for the rare commodity that was oxygen. Arthur's hands slid over Francis' thighs, barely touching before they firmly stroked upward, stopping to knead at the inviting curve of the Gaul's ass.

Francis chuckled, bucking his hips, teasing Arthur with his body, daring the Celt to touch him again, which he did with a will; undoing buttons and shedding the many superfluous layers of clothing that their respective courts demanded that they wear. The air between them was warm; getting warmer the fewer garments they shared. The King of Albion leant in, a wicked smile on his lips, whispering a heated,

"Spread your legs, _your Majesty_."

Obediently the Gaul's legs opened, wrapping around Arthur's hips and flipping them over in a breathless, scrambling tumble of naked limbs so that the king of Albion was beneath him.

"You would I were to receive and so I shall," Francis' voice was half husky murmur and half delighted laughter, "But this is _my_ castle, _your_ _Majesty_, so on my own terms be it."

A flashing, bloody smile lit Arthur's lips as his hips rolling upwards, reminding the Gaul that they were both very naked and very hard. His hands gripped Francis' hips, pulling them closer, trailing up over the blue-eyed king's chest to his lips.

"Do you hear me complaining?" the Celt's laugh was breathless with want, and Francis' smile only got wider as he took those questing fingers into his mouth.

_Yes_, he thought, _show me your desire_.

Into his body.

_Show me your need._

Francis watched with hooded eyes as Arthur pressed the head of his flushed cock against the Gaul's entrance, lips bitten and skin red with lust. The other king's hands were white-knuckled fists, and his grip was too tight.

_Show me your frustration_.

_Your loneliness._

Together they gasped and moaned; puffs of heated air pressed from their needy lungs as they moved in tandem, muscles locking and shaking with strain, desperate for release and almost delusional with pleasure.

_Show me your heart._

Francis mouth was open and he made no attempt to stop the sounds of enjoyment that he made. His eyes were heavy lidded and hazy with lust as he watched Arthur's furrowed brow and parted lips, moaning his ecstasy until he felt heat explode inside him. The Gaul's last thought before he came over their stomachs was,

_That I may fix it. _

~====o)0(o====~

"Mattie?" Alfred asked, eyes fixed dead ahead.

"_Ouias, mon amour_?" Matthew's soft voice was soothingly warm against the back of the Celt's neck, whispering over tan skin and blond hair. Alfred had picked up enough of the Gaul's mother tongue to understand a few simple phrases, and he would have to have been bloody stupid not to know what that meant, because it had been said enough times.

"Are we bound together by the holy bonds of matrimony?" the prince asked, still not turning around to look at his betrothed.

"No," there was a faint tone of puzzlement in the prince's voice as he answered.

"Then get your hands _off_ my ass."

Matthew, the Celt had discovered, had wandering hands. Invisible hands. And because Alfred was so used to people touching him – God forbid the Prince of Albion should have to put his own pants on –and because the Gaul was super-sneaky, he never really noticed the warm weight of Matthew's hands on his skin until they were squeezing or stroking him in the most erotic of ways.

"So set in your puritan ways," the pale prince's voice was fond as he pressed a soft kiss to the golden skin of Alfred's neck, and the blue-eyed blond could hear his fiancé smiling.

"You bet your snowy-white tush I am," was the response. It was supposed to sound carefree, as though the lips on his skin weren't affecting him, but it came out a bit gusty, as though he had someone kissing his neck, "Ring first, buddy."

"And you shall have your ring, and I shall have you," Matthew said contentedly, his arms snaking around Alfred's waist as they waited for Gilbert, continuing to kiss a path up the Celt's neck and to his lips, teasing the other blond with his teeth and tongue until tan hands came up to cup pale cheeks so that they could have a proper, satisfying kiss.

"Pleasant as fresh spring as it may be to observe your facial fornication, I would have words with you," Gilbert drawled from the shadowy depths of his hood.

Matthew with rather more reluctance than the brick red Celt he had been kissing, they broke apart, though the Gaul's arms remained solidly around his wriggling betrothed.

"I bare foul tidings, sire," the albino continued blithely, "The mudslide has blocked the path almost completely. The ground is still unstable. Only a fool would risk it."

"And no fool am I. I shan't risk Alfred on so foolish a path. But how else are we to reach Gaul?" Matthew mused, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead."

"Standing right here you know…" Alfred sighed, rolling his eyes, "And the mountain pass isn't the only way to Gaul. It's the safest way, but not the quickest."

"What boons! See, Gilbert? Not only is my bride fair of face but sharp of mind as well. _Mon amour_, please, guide us?" the Gaul asked softly, a faint smile on his lips, and the Celt leant up to rub the tips of their noses together, making that smile widen beautifully.

"Of course, handsome prince," he winked.

"My Lord, _before_ I am forced to gouge out my own eyes, I _beg_ of you, _may we leave_?" If the words weren't sardonic, Alfred would have sworn that they sounded pained.

"No time like the present," he said, finally managing to squirm from Matthew's grasp and hurl himself onto the bike. His motion sickness was a little better with the Gaul to distract him, but it was still unpleasant and he wanted to get this over as soon as possible, "And we'd better not waste any daylight. There's less ore in the soil around here, so the bikes won't be as fast."

Swinging himself up after his bride, Matthew's hand guided Alfred's to the control panel of the bike, murmuring in the prince's ear, "Show me the way."

~====o)0(o====~

"You were certainly correct about our lack of speed, Alfred. Prithee, what was it you had said of ore?" Matthew asked, voice touched with frustration as the bikes practically crawled, their hulls sometimes scraping the dirt road.

"Oh, that," Alfred said, half sleepily. The sun was out and he was resting his head on Matthew's shoulder, focussing on the Gaul's heartbeat rather than the faint pounding in his head. One benefit of travelling at a snail's pace was that he didn't feel the need to hurl chunks any more, and he could walk in a relatively straight line when he got off the infernal contraption, "I find magic interesting, and hover bikes are both science and magic. A mechanic builds them from steel alloy, and a mage spells them to repel iron. There's iron ore everywhere around these parts, so the bikes are pushed off of the ground. The more iron in the earth, the faster and higher you can go. But the opposite is also true. This route is a quick way to get to Gaul, according to my father's maps. But there's very little ore here, so the going is slow and it's a hot-spot for-"

"Stand and deliver!"

"You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me!" Alfred groaned, cracking an eyelid to see two figures in white masks in the middle of the road, swords drawn, "- Highwaymen."

"Stand and deliver!" the other highway man mirrored, his voice muffled by the mask.

"I will deliver unto none what is rightfully mine," Matthew's voice was soft, but the way his arm tightened around Alfred showed his concern, "Consider your odds, gentlemen. There are three of us and only-"

"Your money," a deep, bass voice rumbled behind them and Alfred whipped his head around to see a tall, pale man, also wearing a white mask and with a drawn sword – this one huge; long broad and straight, it looked like it could cleave a man in two.

"Or your life," though one couldn't tell because of his mask, the man with the floppy brown curls and the intimidating axe sounded like he was smiling, "Come on, _amigos_. There's no need for bloodshed. Just hand him over and any other valuables."

"And we might let you live," chipped in the second man to speak. He too sounded alarmingly cheerful.

"_Stai zitto_, Feli," the first speaker snapped, "They might live. _If_ they do what we say. Otherwise we have no quarrel with you good _sinores. Si_?"

"I will protect you," Matthew murmured in Alfred's ear, slowly drawing his sword.

"I can take care of myself, Mattie," the Celt hissed curtly, slipping his arm behind them and pulling the Gaul's spare blade from the packs.

"What are you two bastar-_Ugh_!" The first speaker was cut off as a cross-bow bolt buried itself in his thigh.

"_Lovi_!" the second speaker and the man with the axe yelled simultaneously, starting forward. The one who had been identified as 'Feli' crouched beside the floored man, muttering something in a fluting language that Alfred couldn't quite hear.

"_Augen Auf_, Feliciano," the largest man warned as Alfred and Matthew slipped from the bike, Gilbert having already dismounted. Feliciano drew a thin stiletto and flipped it, catching it deftly in the hand that wasn't occupied with his rapier.

"_Te amo_, Ludwig," he cooed, eyes locked on the approaching Alfred, "Are you going to hand yourself over?" he asked with a courtly bow, eyes glinting amber behind the mask as they stayed locked on the prince.

"Fat fucking chance," the Celt said, smirking as he raised his blade.

"Then you are a willing captive, _signore_?" Feliciano's blade sang as it scraped down the length of Alfred's.

"I'm not a captive," Alfred snapped, lunging forward.

"So," Gilbert squared up to the taller, broad-sword-wielding man, "Goth or Visigoth?"

"Goth," Ludwig said curtly, bracing himself for battle. Gilbert slid his hood back, his smile sharp and vicious as his blade, raw delight in his smile.

"There is not yet a Goth born able to best me," he laughed, ducking a sweep from the other's sword and moving in too close for him to be able to use the unwieldy blade.

The Spaniard was easy to defeat. Not that he was a bad fighter, but he was distracted by his fallen comrade, and thus quick for Matthew to take down.

Gilbert was having some difficulty with his opponent, who was much larger than him, and while this would usually have meant he was clumsier, he had obviously trained to compensate for that fact, and the two of them were evenly matched.

"Ludwig!" the large blond's head whipped around to see why he had been called, and the sight of Feliciano with Alfred's sword at his throat was enough of a distraction to allow Gilbert to smack him across the back of the head with a fallen tree branch.

"_Bastardo_! You've killed _mi amore_!" the captured highwayman shrieked.

"Feli, shut up!" the fallen Lovi called from where he had dragged himself to the unconscious Spaniard, only to be knocked out with the hilt of Matthew's sword.

"_Frattelone_!" he called, truly distressed now, "I will kill you! You too!" he turned his head slightly to spit at Alfred, "You're not worth a king's ransom, of mighty p-"

It was at that point that Alfred saw fit to drive his fist into the highwayman's gut, and then to his head, winding him and knocking him out.

"Let's get moving," he said, brusquely, clambering back up onto the bike and sheathing Matthew's sword, "We're wasting daylight."

Matthew said nothing, eyes narrowing as he watched the Celt.

~====o)0(o====~

Something was wrong. Matthew was being … not Matthew. There were no teasing little touches, no playful whispers, no idle stories or anything. He sat as far back from Alfred as the bike would allow, and when they stopped after dark, he wandered off to a hilltop within sight without saying a word, and didn't return.

Alfred bit his lip, and Gilbert shrugged.

With a worried sigh, the Celt stood and went to climb the hill.

The moon was beautiful, and so was Matthew. He was drenched in moonlight and the faded, silver gilding it gave him made Alfred once more consider how apt the nickname 'ice prince' was. Even more so with the faint scowl that lined his lips and creased his brow. Beautiful, cold and distant.

"What is it, Alfred F. Jones?" the Gaul asked stiffly, and the blue-eyed prince rocked back on his heels in surprise.

"_Mattie_?"

"Tisn't your name, is it?" Matthew sighed, still not looking at him, "So, _mon amour_," the inflection on the pet name was bitter, "Was it your intention to have me killed, or simply to wed into riches?"

"Mattie, why would you-?"

"They knew you! They knew of you something that which I do not. And yet we were to wed, I had hoped you would have been forthcoming with your secrets," the past tense in reference to marriage made Alfred inhale sharply.

"Alfred is really my name," he said slowly, "And the F is for Fredric. That is also really, truly the name my parents gave me. But you're right, Jones is not. I can't tell you my real name."

Matthew's eyes widened and the Celt pursed his lips unhappily. "Pretender."

"When you found me, I was wearing a dress. Did you really expect anything different?" Alfred sighed, steadying himself. "I have no interest in riches. Whatever gold or lands you have are irrelevant to me. I never lied about that. And as I have absolutely no intention of starting a war, why would I want to have you killed? _You_ found _me_, Matthew. I was out for a walk and you made off with me."

"Then why can you not tell me the truth?" the Gaul pleaded.

"If I tell you the truth, the whole truth – which really isn't all that much – then we can't get married. I won't be allowed to, and I don't think you would be allowed to marry me either. I don't want to be that person if it means we can't be together." there, it was out there, hanging in the silver air between them.

"…You lie because you would stay with me?" Matthew's frown returned, though more in confusion than in anger.

"Yes!" Acting on impulse, Alfred took the Gaulish prince's hand, "I want to stay with you and do stupid things that make you smile. I like it when you smile."

The corner of Matthew's mouth twitched, a soft smile touching his lips, "Truly?"

Grinning like a demon, Alfred leant in, letting their lips just brush, parting his slightly, just teasing until the Gaulish prince made a half laughing, half frustrated sound and pulled him into a kiss.


	8. Foreshadowing Is A Motherless Whore

**91RedRoses, Suzume Batchii Taichi, akira-nox, RasalynnLynx, StarrenPI, otakuprincessluna, Lillipnillillip, Yumi-Tsubato, Milady, EashaChan, Tamagoakura, K-Ojousama, Cookie-the-Platypus, SevLovesLily. Thank you all so much for your support and advice!**

**100****th**** reviewer gets a one shot, as per usual.**

**I know you hate me. Yeah, I love you, too.**

"I was correct then, when I had thought you should enjoy post-coital affections," Francis murmured happily, his fingers stroking over Arthur's chest, kissing the skin of the Celt's shoulder. At some point during the evening's proceedings they had moved from the floor to the Gaul's bed and were presently in a pleasant state of half-asleep.

"I still want to know how you knew that," Arthur said, voice a sigh as Francis' fingers danced across the same two lines of scar tissue again and again.

"Wherefore exist there such imperfections on such a flawless being?" the Gaul asked. The scars were long and thin, one crossing from left shoulder to right hip and the other cut a horizontal line across his stomach.

"Hmmm?" Arthur frowned, looking down at his own chest and stomach, "Oh, those," his head fell back onto the soft, blue pillows, "Those should have killed me. The first," he guided Francis' hand to his stomach, "Was an assassination attempt. When Marianne was carrying the twins, a man broke into our chambers and tried to kill us both, unseamed me in the process. I dealt with him, but I was dying. Marie was always good with a needle and thread. She stitched me up; pulled me from death's jaws. She healed me. A gift from her grandmother, she told me. I had always suspected that there was some devilment about her, it takes one to know one. Hag's blood in her veins, not that you'd believe it with the way she looked," a soft laugh escaped the Celtic King and he threaded his fingers through Francis' pale blond hair, " I think your word for it is _beldam_?"

"_La belle dame sans merci_," Francis answered, eyebrows raised in surprise. It wasn't every day that one met a decedent of the shy and secretive fae, "'_O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? … I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; and on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too._'" It was an older dialect, Arthur knew that much, not one he fully understood, but he could grasp the gist of it. The words were actually familiar, and his eyes narrowed.

"A Celt wrote that," he challenged.

"Indeed," the Gaul's smile was fox-like in its satisfaction, "John Keats. Is it so hard to believe that one of your citizens could speak this tongue of mine? But knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering, what is it that you were saying about knowing your late wife a beldam to be? Or am I simply to believe I have the kith of fae in my bed?"

"Perhaps not," the Celtic king said slowly, weighing his words. Here he was, in an extravagant bedchamber of plush, royal blue velvet and silver braid, in the bed of the Gaulish king, no less. It wasn't that their kingdoms were arch nemeses, just rivals. It couldn't hurt all that much to share a few stories after sex. "As to your issue of my heritage, of no fae stock am I," a secretive smile playing about his lips as he reverted to Gaulish speech, he wasn't entirely uneducated, "There is a legend of my family that one of my ancestors travelled far to the east, to islands and mountain ranges far removed. In one of these mountains he found his wife. In the city of Bhogavati."

"The city of snakes? Surely you jest!" Francis' eyes were wide with playful curiosity.

"I don't know if it's true or not, it's only a story," Arthur shrugged as much as he could with the Gaul's arms around him, and gave the other king a knowing smirk. Francis studied the Celt's face, the way his teeth were just a little too sharp, the way the verdant green of his eyes was just a little too bright. The way his pupils were oval in the half light, "But I've always found that stories are based on truth. Don't you?"

"They are indeed, Arthur, but perhaps you would distract me from the tale of how you achieved this scar?" Francis' fingers trailed carefully tickled the glassy skin, bringing the Celt's attention back to their previous topic of conversation.

"Alright, then. Fine, I'll tell you," the green-eyed king's tone was short, but his eyes were creased into a smile.

~====o)0(o====~

"Mattie, can you _not_ stare at me like that?" Alfred muttered as he slowly shrugged out of his shirt. He could feel the Gaul's eyes lingering on his skin and it was making him feel a little self-conscious. Mostly it was stroking his ego, but a touch embarrassed too.

They'd stumbled across a river, and the Celt had thought it might be a good idea to take a dip in the glittering, dancing silver waters. Matthew had agreed (though now that Alfred's bare feet were sinking into the thick, silt banks he suspected that it was more for the pleasure of seeing him naked than anything else.) And Gilbert had flatly refused, saying that the sun would hurt his skin and the glare of the water was already hurting his eyes and they were only a day's ride from the castle, couldn't they just get a move on?

"You are too cruel, _mon amour_. You would deny me my sight also? How else may I appreciate my bride if I cannot see or touch him?" Matthew sighed, rolling his eyes but looking away as he pulled off his own shirt.

Alfred, however, did not look away. The last time he had seen the Gaulish prince sans shirt was when they had been stuck in the downpour together, and that was almost three weeks ago, and then they had both been grumpy, wet and surrounded by the warm, if smoky glow of a fire. There the Gaul had looked pale, if normal, but exposed in his entirety to the sun's bright light, he was terrifyingly pale. Beautifully pale.

Taking advantage of Matthew's averted eyes, Alfred pulled off his breeches and left his footprints in the soft, grey sand as he dived into the khaki-coloured water, laughing and shaking droplets from his hair when he broke the surface, "C'mon, Mattie! The water's icy!" the Celt laughed, scooping a handful of crystalline droplets towards the land-bound Gaul.

The pale prince took a moment to absorb the scenery. The trees that lined the banks with cool shade were dappled with fresh green and golden yellow as they basked in summer's dying days. The river sparkled in the sunlight; hundreds upon thousands of wavelets edged with glistening, playful silver, reflecting warm sunshine and the endlessly pale blue sky.

And at the centre of it all; Alfred, glorious Alfred with his warm, tan skin, his golden hair and his mischievous, bright blue eyes. The silver reflections tickled the Celt's hips and glittered in gem-like droplets on his skin. Smiling, waving and promised to him. Matthew let his eyes close, feeling light warm his shoulders and chest. If this was what it meant to melt, then he would happily dissolve into a puddle right here on the sand.

"Your highness," Gilbert was halfway up a tree and hiding in his hood from the water's glare, "I am fearful that should you further delay the removal of your own garments, a fish may take fancy to your betrothed and make off with him. Make no attempts to fornicate under the cover of water, sire, or I will know about it. Which I assure you I do not want."

Giving a half smile to the albino in the tree fork, Matthew followed Alfred's example and shed the last of his clothes, striding forward into the water; letting it lap at his toes, ankles, calves and thighs until he was standing about a metre from Alfred – who had watched his entrance with wide blue eyes.

"It's kind of weird, but I'm afraid that the water's going to stain you," the prince of Albion chuckled sheepishly.

"And I the same of you, fair Alfred. Though Gilbert fears that you shall be stolen by fish," that made Alfred laugh, and Matthew was glad of it, flicking drops of water at his betrothed.

"I dunno, he might be right," the Celt's shame-faced chuckle morphed into a proper laugh, "_Something's_ getting up close and personal down there, and I don't think it's you." Alfred offered a cheeky smirk, splashing Matthew's still dry chest.

The Gaul sputtered, jumping back and stumbling so that he sunk chest deep into the water, "Most bedevilled minx!" he protested, splashing Alfred back, who only laughed, spinning in the shower of droplets before sinking down so that he was on Matthew's level.

"Aw, I'm not as bad as all that, Mattie," he cooed, a playful smile dancing about his lips as he swam closer. The Celt's hands came to rest on the Gaul's chest, open palms against warm skin, barely visible beneath the water. Those hands moved slowly up to Matthew's shoulders and both of them shivered, "I can be fun."

"Oh? And how is that, _mon amour_?" the pale prince took advantage of the fact that Alfred seemed to have forgotten his no touching rule, running his hands up from the Celt's thighs to his hips, pulling him closer.

"I can make you smile," the blue-eyed blond really was just being cocky now, but when in Gaul… "I can make you laugh," with every word, he was moving closer to Matthew, leaning in so that their lips were almost touching, "I can make you wet."

The Gaulish princes eyes, which had been almost closed and focused on Alfred's lips, flicked up in time to see the mischief dancing in the Celt's smile before he was pushed beneath the surface.

Matthew came up scowling and spitting water, his hair in bedraggled curls over his eyes.

Alfred was laughing unashamedly, so wrapped up in his mirth that he didn't notice the Gaul until it was too late and he was lifted straight out of the water, kicking and flailing.

"Mattie, put me down! Damn it, Matthew, I'm naked! Put me down!"

Above Gilbert's hysterical laughter, the prince of Albion heard his betrothed say, "As you wish~"

"What? No! _Matthew_, I-" but that was all he managed before the Gaul dropped him into the water, the rush of it muting and warping his senses until he broke the surface.

"_Very_ funny," the Celt muttered, hair plastered to his scalp, "_Hilarious_."

"So I thought," Matthew smiled, the sweetest, most innocent expression on his face, even as his shoulders shook with repressed snickering.

"Whatever," Alfred grumbled, sloshing his way onto the riverbank while Gilbert shrieked and shielded his eyes in mock horror, "Let's get to Gaul. The sooner we get married the sooner I can suspend your sexual privileges."

"T'was in harmless jest, _mon amour_! I meant no harm," Matthew said hurriedly, chasing after him as fast as the sucking water would allow.

The Celt grinned and the albino bodyguard sniggered, "My Lord, he hath you hankering after him like a bitch in heat." Neither of the princes was exactly sure who the insult was directed at, but both of them seemed like the most likely option.

"Cease your tongue, Gilbert," Alfred said, imitating Matthew so well that the Visigoth automatically replied with a long-suffering,

"Yes, My Lord."

At which point all three of them, two of whom were half dressed, fell about laughing.

"But a single passing of the sun until our life together can begin in earnest," the Gaul sighed happily as he swung himself up onto the bike beside Alfred.

"I can't wait," the Celt sighed, leaning back against the other prince, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt and the dampness where his hair dripped onto the material.

~====o)0(o====~

"We were hunting in the forest just beyond the outskirts of the city," Arthur said, his eyes locked on Francis' fingers as they stroked back and forth over the shiny, puckered scar, "Alfred, five guards and I. There was something wrong, that much was sure from the start."

~====o)0(o====~

The air was warm and still as the trio hummed their way idly through the trees. The forest was beautiful; tall, stately trees draped in fresh greens that were just beginning to fade to yellow as Autumn gradually approached. But although it was a warm day, and still, it was silent.

"It is way too quiet around here," Alfred murmured, retracting slightly into Matthew, who was looking about warily. The silence was resounding, deafening in the way it pounded at their straining eardrums, but still, there was nothing there.

The bikes were starting to speed up as they continued, but not fast enough to set aside their worry.

~====o)0(o====~

The king of Albion's eyes were watching some far off memory replay, his tone wary and resigned, and the king of Gaul kissed his cheek, stroking his hair to try and cheer him up a little.

"None of us could have seen it coming."

~====o)0(o====~

In an attempt to distract himself from the itchy feeling that the silence had given him, Alfred was watching the scenery. This also helped a little with his motion sickness, but if they got any faster, he was going to have to close his eyes and bear it.

He'd long since stopped being able to name the plants and trees around them, so in lieu of actual names, he had decided to make names up, which served to amuse Matthew and was pretty fun.

"That tree looks like a leg," he said, feeling uncomfortably sleepy in the afternoon heat. Tired, but unwillingly so, "And that root looks like a claw. Look; that branch looks like a dragon's tail."

The Celt felt Matthew tense up behind him, and suddenly all the day's heat was gone – replaced with icy cold – as the Gaul whispered,

"_Dragon_?"


	9. Write Your Own Damn Dragon Attack

**Ms. Redrum (Murder?), K-Ojousama, StarrenPI, Lillilpnillilip, Tamagoakura, Saiya-hime, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, xXxthenextbookwormxXx, RasalynnLynx, Suzume Batchii Taichi, Nika565, JasperSellene, Milady, Zenna95, Anon007, Aestiva, Yumi-Tsubato, 91RedRoses and Yoailover4lyfe, thanks gang! **

**Guys, I am so sorry for the slow updates, but like the title says. Also, life's a little busy just now, what with finishing my TEFL course and NaNoWriMo starting in a few days.**

**This is a little shorter than the last few chapters, but I'm sure you'll understand why. And when you do, I'm going to find something sturdy and hide behind it. **

The Celt felt Matthew tense up behind him, and suddenly all the day's heat was gone – replaced with icy cold – as the Gaul whispered,

"_Dragon_?"

Gilbert drew his sword, eyes darting around the trees as he tried to see what Alfred saw. Once they were looking, it wasn't difficult to see; the creature's scales were the same smooth silver as the tree bark around them. It was curled around the trees, its eyes open, staring directly at the trio.

"_Shit_," Alfred's lips formed the word but not even a breath of air escaped him. Slit pupils dilated, and a shiver ran down the Celt's spine, making his hair stand on end. It was watching them. Waiting. Its curved, reptilian mouth opened and a gout of hot air withered the flora around them.

"Mon amour, when I say run-" Matthew whispered, his eyes locked on the dragon. The other prince's fingers locked around the Gaul's wrist.

"I will _not_ run," Alfred said very firmly, not looking at his betrothed.

"As the Prince of Gaul-"

"You have no authority over me!" the Celt hissed, "We're betrothed, right? That means equal. So if you get to play the hero, then so do I!"

Making a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat, Matthew made no further attempt to push Alfred away, instead pulling him closer as he nodded at Gilbert, who was slowly creeping forward.

It only took a second for the dragon to dig its claws into the earth and launch itself at the albino.

"_GILBERT! __**NO**__!_"

~====o)0(o====~

"It came out of nowhere," Arthur sighed, his fingers threading through Francis' hair, "Before I knew what was going on, the rear guard was dead and the vanguard was next. The creature was huge; about as tall as tall as a regular horse and half again," his hand waved vaguely in the air, pointing out things that only he could see; painting his memory in the either, "It's eyes were red and rolling and I would have to call the beast mad with pain. There was a crossbow bolt in its flank - iron, I should think, to make it so disagreeable."

"Prithee, _chere_, you were by no such beast as a large horse accosted?" Francis' tone was just a touch derisive, and immediately, Arthur's hackles rose.

"It wasn't a horse, it was a _unicorn_," the Celt said snippily, "I know because it gored me with the fucking great horn in the middle of its face."

"A unicorn," the Gaul repeated disbelievingly, "Perhaps it is that you find yourself trauma touched? Or perhaps you are mistaken. Are unicorns not creatures of gentle lore?"

"Only if that lore is meant for children. There is a reason that the unicorn on my kingdom's crest is shackled. Now if you will excuse me, I'm sure I've intruded on your hospitality quite long enough," Arthur grumbled sourly as he attempted to extricate himself from Francis' silken sheets. It was a vain attempt. The Gaulish king's arms encircled the Celt, dragging him back into the depths of the debauched bed.

"Come now, Arthur," Francis' lips left a trail up the ridges of his spine, "Suck ill humour is unbecoming. I would you were to finish your tale. I would you were to lie with me a little longer. I would you were to make me fear for morning's light."

Sighing, the Celtic king let himself fall back into the softness of down duvets and Francis' arms, "I don't know why I put up with you."

"I would hope the music of my pleasure soothes the savage in you," the Gaul purred in his lover's ear, and said lover was pulled back to a time in the not-so-distant past when they had been moaning each other's names, tongues heavy with lust, "But come now, tell me of the terrifying beast."

Rolling his eyes in a manner much reminiscent of his son, Arthur gave a dry chuckle, "As you wish."

The beast stood over me, me chest was ripped open. I can only remember being thankful that I had pushed Alfred aside. I was about to die."

~====o)0(o====~

The dragon's teeth snapped together just centimetres from the albino's head, and he could feel his pulse in every single centimetre of his body. He'd come close to death before, but never as close to that. The stink of rotting, roasted meat was thick in his nostrils as the beast roared, the hot air almost enough to bake him in his skin.

Growling his frustration, he ducked closer to the beast, jabbing at its scaly hide with his sword – looking for a soft spot between the armoured plates and finding none.

With Gilbert as out of harm's way as it was possible for Gilbert to be in that instant, Matthew began to tug Alfred back towards the forest, hoping to get the two of them out of there alive. The Visigoth was highly trained and highly skilled; he himself had only been in a few border skirmishes and battles; nothing that exactly amounted to oodles of military experience (Almost the exact opposite of Gilbert, who was a general in his father's army.) The best chance for the two princes surviving this encounter was to get the hell out of dodge.

"Mattie, what are we-?"

"GET DOWN!" Thing seemed to move in slow motion, bits of disjointed film taped together in a manner that didn't really make sense. He felt himself hit the ground.

Blackness.

Looking up at Matthew, whose eyes were wide and surprised.

Time moved sluggishly as the huge tail spikes embedded in the Gaul's chest dragged downwards, tearing two huge gashes in his skin where they scraped over bone and sank into his gut. Matthew's face contorted comically, and through the cotton wool of disbelief that fogged his hears, Alfred could hear the other prince screaming. He could hear the wet sucking sound as the dragon's spikes tore free, pulling the pale prince to his knees.

Slowly, Matthew toppled face-first into the dust.


	10. There's Been A Misunderstanding Here

**Ms. Redrum, Aestiva, Milady, Ipseran, a person, akira-nox, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, Suzume Batchii Taichi, 91RedRoses, yoailover4lyfe and woodbyne (not me! Guys, there are **_**two**_** people on this account! The one who writes shit and the one who posts that shit. GIVE THE POSTING BITCH SOME LOVE!)**

**I may be cruel, but let it never be said that I don't reward my readers. I'm going to try for another chapter tomorrow. Considering this is almost 3k and I started yesterday, I think that's a very real possibility. I love procrastinating.  
**

**But things must get worse before they get better, I'm afraid (for my life). **

Slowly, Matthew toppled face-first into the dust.

"NO. NO. MATTIE. _NO_!" Alfred's voice was shredded by sound as he scrambled on grazed hands and knees to where his betrothed had fallen, blood seeping darkly into the path.

"No, no, nonono," the Celt chanted over and over again, "This can't be happening. No. Please, Mattie, come on!" With numb hands, he turned the Gaul over onto his back, sobs clawing at his throat as he saw the full extent of the damage that had been done. Ribs were cracked and broken, pushing up through ragged skin. Where the spikes hadn't broken through his ribcage, thick notches were carved into the bones. His stomach was the worst; unprotected by bone, the other prince's entrails were spilling out of his skin. So much blood.

"Matthew! Your highness… I don't know. Prince of Gaul, Ice Prince, whatever they call you. You've got to stay with me, okay? Listen to me. Don't go to sleep, Mattie, whatever you do," Alfred could barely see for his own tears, "You have to stay with me, okay? You have to teach me your full, dumb-ass title. And we need to get married so I can tell you my last name! Please!" His lips were wet, but he didn't think Matthew would mind all that much as he pressed kiss after kiss to the Gaulish prince's unnaturally pale skin.

Indigo eyes blinked hazily open.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, yes, it's me, Mattie. You just listen to me, okay? I'm going to keep you alive, okay? You're going to stay alive. For me, okay? You said you were gonna fall in love with me. You're not going to break that promise, are you?" A hopeful smile pulled at his mouth, and he sniffed, blinking back more tears.

"I…" a rattling, sucking breath dragged from Matthew's lungs and Alfred gave a strangled sob, "Cannot break a-"another long, moaning breath, "Vow I have…" the words were just load enough for Alfred to hear, "Already- aah. Kept."

"You son of a bitch," the Celt whispered, "You _stupid_ son of a _bitch_. You're supposed to say that at our wedding!"

"Your… eyes," a weak smile bloomed on bloodied lips, "_Beau_. Like a-" each word was a puff of breath, "summer sky. So…glad," he was fighting for every syllable, "I could. Your eyes. Before-"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ start that, Matthew! You are going to live! Okay? You hear me? This is not optional. You are going to live, and we're going to get married and hold hands and do stupid things together and we are going to show your stuck-up court officials how warm you really are."

"_Mon_…" flecks of crimson burst from the prince's lips, settling on his face, "_Amour_…"

"Crazy Gaul," Alfred whispered bitterly, "I'm your summer prince. It wasn't supposed to be like this-"

"MY LORD!" the animalistic scream came from behind them, and the Celt turned to see the dragon bearing down on them both.

Without a moment's hesitation, Alfred threw himself in front of Matthew, protecting the injured Gaul with his body.

~====o)0(o====~

"And then?" Francis asked, wide eyed, his fingers latched onto Arthur's arm as he eagerly awaited the next part of the story. He knew the Celt couldn't possibly have died. He was here, after all, safe and warm in the Gaul's bed, only a little worse for wear.

"I waited for a blow that never came. When I looked up, Alfred had a belt around the creature's muzzle and was easing the bolt from its flank. Anticlimactic, it's true, but no less amazing. It calmed once the bolt was removed and let Alfred lead it back into the forest."

"Wait," the king of Gaul narrowed his eyes, "It is not like my royal self to be mistaken, but it is no beyond the parameters of reason when the topic of conversation is not one I am versed in, but is it not true that unicorns are only tamed by those who are …pure?"

"That is true. What of it?" Arthur's tone sounded like thin ice cracking underfoot in the middle of a very large lake that was slap bang in nowhere's arsehole.

"Your son is the same age as my Matthieu, _oui_? Matthieu has no fondness of crowds or strangers and thus has not wed, but he is no virgin," an edge of laughter laced Francis' words.

"Our customs are different in Albion," the Celt said icily, but sighed, shoulders sagging a little, "I don't think that Alfred looks too kindly on the institution of marriage. As much as I love my wife, we were an odd match. Both too strong-willed to be paired together. We fought a lot, and I think that's most of what he remembers of us together. He's never shown the slightest interest in getting married or having any kind of romantic relationship before."

"Oh," there was a pause laden with things unsaid, but it was brushed aside in favour of the story at hand, "So your virginal son stopped the rampaging unicorn, what happened next?"

"He saved my life."

~====o)0(o====~

The heavy, painful blackness that Alfred was waiting for never came.

Instead, there was an unholy shriek, like tearing metal, and a cascade of something boiling hot and liquid cascaded down on the hapless pair. Sputtering, Alfred wiped red from his eyes. It was everywhere! In his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his nose. It was all over Matthew, too. Drenching, burning, cooling, sticky-

Blood.

Turning his head fast enough to give himself whiplash, the Celt looked around, barely believing what he was seeing. The dragon's head was caught between two branched in the canopy above, and the creature's neck was gaping, open and ruby red.

Gilbert – man of the hour – was scrambling down from the tree, falling over his own feet in his haste to get to Matthew's side.

"_Verdammt__, __dumkopf_-"

"He's _not_ stupid!" Alfred snapped, "He's _brave_. And save your damn eulogy. I can fix this!"

"Alfred-" it didn't even register in the albino's mind that the Celt had understood a language he had never had cause to hear before as he tried to comfort his prince's intended.

"No! He's not dead yet! Do you have a needle and thread?" the prince of Albion began frantically patting himself down.

"Please, he wouldn't have wanted th-" once again, Gilbert was cut off before he could finish.

"I don't _care_! If he can be selfish and get himself killed playing hero, then he can't complain when I do the same thing. _Now do you have a fucking needle_?" the albino had never really viewed the Celt as a particularly violent person, or even particularly easy to anger, but the look on his face now was positively manic.

"You two would have had a very unhealthy relationship. I'll check the packs," Gil sighed, clambering up and jogging off towards the bikes to check for a needle, thread and a roll of bandages.

~====o)0(o====~

"He saved your life?" Francis asked incredulously, wondering how a boy who couldn't even manage to misplace his own virginity could save the life of a king, "How, precisely, did he achieve this feat?"

"Stitched my wound," Arthur shrugged, ignoring the Gaul's sceptical look, "I don't pretend to know how the gift works, only that it does. My son sewed me up and three days later, all I had was a scar. I can't imagine it was much fun for him, though. He thought I was going to die, poor lad. He was alternately cursing me out and begging me to stay. 'You stupid old man, I love you, you can't die, damn it, I don't want to be king yet!' Were his exact words, I believe." A fond smile creased Arthur's lips.

"A formidable talent runs in your family. But pray what of your own, descendant of Bhogavati?" Francis' eyes glittered teasingly, "What superhuman abilities have the Naga people seen fit to bestow?"

"The usual," the Celt said airily, waving a hand to dismiss the question, "Superhuman strength, wisdom and good looks," A sharp grin lined his lips, "Of course, I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, but I'm also quite remarkably flexible."

Francis' answering smile was lupine, "_Is that so_?"

~====o)0(o====~

In the absence of a needle, Alfred was pulling twine through Matthew's skin with a sharp bit of wire from one of the bikes.

"Are you of utmost certainty this will work?" Gilbert demanded, pacing ceaselessly behind the Celt, "I would not have you desecrate the corpse of my Lord."

"I would you were silent that I may give my utmost to the resuscitation of your Lord and mine," Alfred snapped over his shoulder, pushing hair stick with congealed blood back from his face.

The albino's eyes narrowed, "Since when do you speak Gaulish or Goth?" he asked, "And by what means is this resuscitation, for I will suffer no necromancy, nor any further pain to be inflicted."

"I know not of which you speak, and I no sorcerer am I. I have but a gift that shall not be put to waste while my beloved lies living," with a triumphant grunt, Alfred tied off the last knot. The wounds were messy but the stitchery, at least, was clean.

Together they watch Matthew's shallow breathing, and as the moments dragged on, Alfred's face fell and the livid gashes on the Gaul's chest remained obstinately unhealed.

"I don't understand," the blue-eyed blond couldn't meet the fading indigo eyes before him, "Why isn't it working? It should be healing. That's what dad's did-"

Alfred's words were cut off as Gilbert hauled him to his feet and slammed the bloody Celt against the cooling hide of the Dragon's carcass, a sword to his throat.

"I told him. I told him you were trouble, and now he's dead and I'm the one who has to tell his father that I couldn't protect him from some stupid warlock!"

Gilbert's red eyes had scared Alfred the first time he had seen them, but that was nothing to the utmost terror he felt now. The albino's face was contorted with rage and misery and the blade was beginning to break skin – leaving a line of fire across the Celt's neck.

"Gilbert, lay off."

"But, my Lord! He's killed you!" it took a moment to sink in before the knight whipped around, disbelief plastered on his features.

There was Matthew, groaning as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, two livid scars visible on his chest where the stitches had been. He was filthy and battered and definitely worse for wear, but he was grinning tiredly and Alfred wanted to run to him and hold him close.

The blade that was digging into his neck was a bit of a cockblock, though.

"Still, he speaks in tongues, my Lord!" Gilbert protested.

"You dolt," Matthew laughed weakly, wincing as his stomach muscles contracted painfully, "So am I!"

"Sire?" Alfred wished his fiancé wouldn't antagonise the man with the sword.

"Hast the lessons we took together as boys been so soon forgotten? Fair vassal, in what am I covered? My own blood and that of a dragon," the Gaul was on his feet now, taking stumbling steps toward them until he could tug at Gilbert's arm. He wasn't strong enough to pull the sword away, but the albino got the message, "The blood of a drake, when supped, imparts the gift of tongues."

"You drank dragon's blood?" Gil made a disgusted face.

"Take some credit, dude," Alfred groused, rubbing his throat briefly before moving forward to pull an unresisting Matthew into his arms. Now that he had someone to lean on, the Gaul used it to his full advantage, his strength having waned in the short walk over to his friends (he'd almost died, give the man a break) he let Alfred support his weight, "You poured a whole dragonful over us."

~====o)0(o====~

At Matthew's insistence, they doubled back to the river they had been playing in earlier to clean off and recuperate before heading back to the castle. It wasn't far, but the prince had insisted that he wanted to take a day or two until he could walk on his own. There would be enough kerfuffle at the palace, Matthew reasoned, without the added drama of the crown price being unable to stand on his own two feet.

Alfred, for his part, had as good as welded himself to the Gaul's side, refusing to leave unless absolutely necessary, and even then not out of eye- or earshot.

The night before they were due to go back; Alfred lay beside Matthew, his fingers running over the scars.

"Apprehensive, _mon amour_?" the Gaul asked quietly, not wanting to disturb Gilbert.

"Yea verily," Alfred snarked, cuddling closer to the prince's side, "I don't want anyone to hate me."

"You saved my life," Matthew kissed first the Celt's hair, then his cheeks, "I shouldn't think that I could hate you."

"You'd be surprised," Alfred sighed, looking at the stars, "But even if you do… Do you at least promise not to hate me?"

"Your tone concerns me, dearest," the injured prince murmured, stroking a lock of golden blond behind a Celtic ear, "The truth you have promised to tell is greater than you wished?"

"I may have downplayed things a little more than I should have," the blue-eyed man didn't shy away from Matthew's touch, but he didn't lean into it the way he wanted to.

"Then I swear on this, the life you gave me, that I shall not hate you, no matter your truth. And I shall not ever forget you," it was barely a breath after that that their lips met, hands tangling in each other's hair. Alfred was too focused on the fire in his lips and in his blood to notice that Matthew had eased him back so that the Gaul was hovering over him. He kept on not noticing until with a pained grunt, Matthew collapsed on top of him.

"Mattie! Here," carefully, he pushed the prince back so that it was in his original position, "Is that more comfortable?"

The Ice Prince looked up wryly from the flat of his back. His hair was spread around his face and his eyes were dark in the moonlight.

"I should very much like to continue a little longer before we retire," he whispered, and Alfred blushed mightily.

"Sure, how would we do that?"

"I shouldn't like to risk strain, so, like this," pale hands guided the Celt until he was straddling Matthew's hips. A smirk on his lips, the Gaul wove his hands once more into his betrothed's hair, pulling him down, "And now we kiss."

Keeping his weight carefully off the injured prince, Alfred captured Matthew's lips in a slow, warm kiss. By now the taste of each other's lips was a familiar pleasure, one eagerly sought after. Whenever one pulled back, the other followed until they were both short of breath and Gilbert was threatening them with an untimely and tragic demise unless they _went the_ _fuck to sleep_.

"They call you the Ice Prince," Alfred murmured drowsily, sliding off of Matthew and cuddling up to his side as the Gaul put an arm around him.

"What of it, _mon amour_?"

"They say it like ice isn't beautiful."

"Your deaths will be unpleasant to explain to his Majesty, but that will make my slumber no less satisfying!"

~====o)0(o====~

"Ready?" Matthew breathed; an elated smile on his lips as they stood outside the door to the throne room. They layout appeared to have changed somewhat in the two months the Gaul had been absent from home. The heralds seemed to have been dispensed with in all but the room ahead of them, and they seemed to be under orders to shorten any and all titles down to the bare minimum.

Unless it was a formal introduction.

Which this was.

"Let's do this," Alfred whispered back with a giddy grin. They'd undergone a change of clothes, and they were both in the formal, royal blue of the Gaulish court.

The doors swung open and they took a step forward before kneeling, eyes to the floor.

"Your Majesties," Alfred shot Matthew a look, and Matthew just gave a jerk of his shoulder to say that he didn't know either, "I present to you His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Matthew, Heir Apparent to the Kingdom of Gaul, Prince Regent and Duke of Montreal, Ga-Oh, Bear of the Northern Empire, returns to your court bearing the title of Ice Prince and bringing with him a bride from lands afar, A-"

"Alfred?!" the Celt's head jerked up as his name was yelled, and all colour drained from his face, eyes wide and panicked.

"Dad!?" he croaked.

"_Dad_?" Matthew repeated, horror settling across his face as Francis parroted Arthur's yell of,

"_Alfred_?"

"_Shit_." The prince of Albion swore.


	11. I Hereby Declare You A Royal Asshole

**K-Ojousama, Ipseran, Milady, Yumi Tsubato, Anon007, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior (and Friend!), Lillilpnillilip, mofalle, ncalkins, RasalynnLynx, starryclimes, Zenna95, akira-nox, 91RedRoses, yoailover4lyfe, SaraBarns, woodbyne and Suzume Bachii Taichi, thank you!**

**A special thank you to Moonlight's Shadow Warrior for recommending this to a friend, and a huge, wonderfully warm welcome to that friend; thank you for finding me funny enough to read! Though humour may be in deficit these next few chapters, I swear it shall return!**

**It's 0:15, and I stayed up just to post this today. Yay for consistency. **

**Guess what happens next chapter. Go on. Guess.**

"Wait," Matthew said slowly, "If His Majesty is your _father_ then that would make _you_-?"

"Alfred." With every word, the Celtic prince flinched, "Fredric. Johannes. _Kirkland_. Southern Wolf. Eagle of Albion. Tamer of Beasts. Duke of Montana. Lord of fife York. Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne. What the blood _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"Yeah," Alfred said hoarsely, tearing his apologetic eyes from Matthew and standing to bow formally to his father, "Your Majesty, my King and Father, I," he paused, swallowing and staring at the floor. It was now or never, and if he didn't say it now, Matthew might never forgive him, "I offer my most profuse and sincere apologies for not informing you earlier of my betrothal to His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Matthew of Gaul."

There was a protracted pause as Arthur processed his son's words.

"Alfred, lad," the Celtic prince felt his stomach sink, "Would you care to say that again?" He was being given a chance to rethink his words. He could see a muscle twitching in his father's jaw. Straightening, Alfred shoved his chin out defiantly,

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier that Mattie and I have decided to get married, but you would not _believe_ the time we had getting here. Why are _you_ here, anyway?" When in doubt, drop all formality and hope that he works into such a froth that he has to calm down and think before deciding what to do.

"What am _I_ doing-? I'm only having the imperial army march the length and breadth of this and every other kingdom that will let me; _looking for you!_" Arthur was beside himself. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Francis and gave a courtly bow, "Begging your indulgence, Your Majesty, but there are matters that my son and I must discuss in private."

"You needn't beg, Arthur," Francis said, eyes levelled coolly at Matthew, who was still kneeling on the floor, completely shell-shocked. Of all the things he had prepared himself for, this was _not_ one of them.

With a curt nod, the king of Albion swept out of the room, holding the door open for the prince, "Come, Alfred." The words were bitten out, carefully at a reasonable volume.

Once the door closed, the Gaulish king turned to his own son and Matthew sighed, climbing carefully to his feet, wincing slightly. "Papa," he sighed, "Prithee, I would demand truth; have you lain with the King?"

"_Ah bon_, Matthieu?" Francis sighed, ignoring the question, "The Celt prince? Did you mean a war to start?"

"My own father has bedded the house of Kirkland before I, the betrothed, hast yet chanced to," he groaned, guessing what the evasion meant.

"Two moons gone and you have not yet bedded him? You have lost your touch. _Mon fils_, what were you thinking?" Francis sighed, "To wed a man you can have no heirs, and the line cannot continue. And to thieve Albion of its heir in one fell swoop? By what ill humour are you visited?"

"I respected his wishes! I knew him neither as prince nor heir until but a moment ago," the prince protested, "But if that is your concern, then will a strong allegiance with Albion be truly so remise? The conflict between our borders could be settled with a lesser loss of life."

"And what of the Bonnefoy line? Would you take a mistress, or would your Celt be your mistress?" Matthew's mouth pressed into a hard line.

"_Père_, I wish you would not speak so of my intended. He will be nothing so shameful as my mistress, and I will not suffer him to be second in my affections," the prince said stiffly.

"Do not play-"

"_Absolutely not_!" the roar came from the other side of the door and was unmistakably Arthur's, "I _will not allow it!_"

"You_ married a Gaul, why can't I_?" That was definitely Alfred, and Matthew bit his lip, longing to stand by the Celt's side, even if it was only to offer his hand to hold.

"_Don't you _dare_ bring your mother into this! That was _completely_ different_!" If it was possible for Arthur to get louder and angrier with every word, then it was happening. If it wasn't, then it just seemed that way.

"_How? Because Matthew's a man? That's not fair_!" Alfred's already-loud voice, too, seemed to reach new heights of rage.

"_Your mother was an expatriate from Bordeaux, not the heir to the entire fucking _kingdom_, Alfred! Think of your country!"_

_"A marriage to Mattie would mean an alliance and no more wars over land! How is that _not_ thinking of my country?" _Francis gave Matthew a look as though to say, 'See? He wants you for your power.' Matthew answered with the most venomous glare he could muster.

"_A marriage into the Bonnefoy family would mean that when you inherit the country, your lands are forfeit to him! Would you really hand over an empire that has stood for a thousand years for a crush?"_ Arthur shrieked, seeming to have come to the crux of his argument. Francis perked up, this thought obviously not having occurred to him; he looked to his son, about to encourage him to go for it when he saw the stony expression on the prince's face. He'd seen Matthew upset, sad and angry, but the look of absolute loathing that was forming on his face was new and frightening.

"_I don't care!"_ Alfred's voice rang clear as a bell through the barrier between them, "_I love him, dad! _I love him!_ I'll cede the throne! I'll abdicate! Let Amelia rule, you know she wants to!"_ As soon as those words were spoken, the expression dropped straight off Matthew's face, replaced by a sickeningly hopeful smile, and the King felt his stomach drop. This was not going to be an easy separation.

"_No! I refuse to let you throw your life away for a leg over with some barbarian whore!"_ both of the Gauls winced at that remark.

"_You __**hypocrite**_!" Alfred screamed, his voice ripping through octaves in his anger, "_I saw you getting all buddy-buddy with King Francis! 'You needn't _beg_, Arthur~',_" he mocked. An almighty crack echoed from the other side of the closed door and Matthew felt his heart stop.

Arthur's words were much quieter now, but they were still loud in the silence, "_This may not be our home, Alfred, but I am still your father, and you will _not_ speak to me like that."_

The door creaked open and a stiff-shouldered Arthur ushered his son back into the throne room. Alfred's head was bowed, but it was pretty obvious that one cheek was a glowing pink. Without a word to either of the kings, Matthew marched forward, tugging the Celt away from his father and into a hug,

"Will you be alright?" he whispered, stroking Alfred's hair soothingly. The Celt nodded into his shoulder while the Gaul glared daggers at Arthur. It was just as well that he knew better than to insult foreign dignitaries (particularly from a kingdom as powerful as Albion) because there were no words for the seething hatred he felt for the Celtic king in that moment.

Ignoring their fathers' presence, Matthew tipped Alfred's face up. The blue-eyed prince's jaw was stiff, but there was a quiver in his lip.

"I'm sorry, Mattie, I tried," he sighed, a defeated air about him.

"I know you did_, mon amour_," he soothed, the backs of his fingers brushing Alfred's sore cheek, pale skin contrasting horribly. Giving his father a dark look, the prince of Albion threw his arms around Matthew's neck and kissed him solidly on the lips, tongue demanding entrance. The Gaul's surprised mouth opened without offering resistance, sinking joyfully into the kiss.

Arthur grabbed at his son's shoulder, only to be swatted away by an otherwise-occupied Alfred.

"We are leaving immediately," the Celtic King ground out. Reluctantly, the princes' lips parted but they remained in each other's arms.

"The day wearies, Your Majesty," Francis said lightly, a careful look in his eyes, "T'would be unseemly of me to let such honoured guests as yourselves travel in darkness. Prithee, bide the night within my walls."

"Kind though your offer is, Your Majesty, we should be going," Arthur's smile was token at best. He hadn't missed the double entendre.

"_I insist_," Francis' smile could have killed a heard of stampeding wildebeest.

And who was a king to argue with that?

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew sat on his bed, wondering whether or not it was acceptable to cry before Alfred was dragged from the palace. He couldn't bear the thought of not waking up to golden-blond hair tickling his nose. The Celt's proximity had become something he loved. He loved the way he laughed, the way he smiled, the way he poked the Gaul into laughing and smiling, too. He loved the way Alfred cuddled up to his chest.

Oh well. Now was the time for slumber, and in the morning he would wake up without his beloved Celt, just like he would until the crown fell to him.

Sighing, Matthew ran a hand over his chest, feeling the marks that the dragon had left on him. He had been willing to die to save the other prince. And just like that, he was alive again. Was the loss of love his price to pay for a second chance at life? It wasn't worth it.

A soft knock at his chamber door broke his concentration, "_Père_, I have no wish to speak with you," he called, not even bothering to look at the door. He didn't need to be told that it was 'better this way'.

"Good thing I'm not your father," Alfred said, sticking his head around the door with a wan smile, "Otherwise what I'm intending to do would be all _sorts_ of wrong."


	12. He's A One-Stop-Shop With A Real Big Aah

** , Vampiric-Cat, RasalynnLynx, Lillipnillilip, SevLovesLily, starrenPI, Zenna95, Ipseran, woodsy, K-Ojousama, akira-nox, Yumi-Tsubato, otakuprincessluna, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, Anon007, Suzume Bachii Taichi, 91RedRoses, Milady, yaoilover4lyfe. Whoa, guys, thanks!**

**Interesting fact, if you go onto my tumblr, under the Fan Fiction tag, you will find a list of all the Royal's titles and what they mean or why they are. Congratulations all of you for correctly guessing the content of this chapter.**

**This chapter was brought to you by spacedrunk on tumblr, who did the most fantastic picture of our favourite Gaulish prince. Everyone give that woman a hand! Seriously. Sell your soul to her, if you haven't already; her art is amazing and she's a really sweet person. Link is in the profile~**

"_Mon amour_!" Matthew jumped to his feet, pulling Alfred in and closing the door behind him, "…Is there any reason in particular that you come bearing cake?" he asked, looking bemusedly at the pink, cream confectionary.

"With the way you cook, I figured the kitchen staff must be quite fond of you, and the kitchen is always the easiest part of a palace to find; your room is not. I had to ask the cooks where it was. They said this was your favourite?" Alfred chuckled, but he sounded a little nervous.

"Indeed it is, though I should think it would taste all the sweeter from your lips," the Gaul teased, trying to lighten the mood. Trying to pretend – even for just a moment – that tomorrow they wouldn't be ripped apart. Trailing a finger through pink icing, he brought it to Alfred's lips, his expression offering.

An easy smile erased the concern from the Celt's face and this time his laugh was the one that Matthew loved so much. "Do you think my lips would melt the Ice Prince?" he joked, but still there was something serious in his eyes as he sucked the cream from the Gaulish prince's fingertip.

"Perhaps they might," he said, pulling Alfred into a slow kiss, the familiar flavour of two of his favourite things making his aching heart soar.

The prince of Albion's cheeks were red when they parted, "You don't look melted," he said slowly, teeth sinking into his lower lip, his blush growing darker with every passing second, "Maybe my lips weren't enough?"

"Alfred?" Matthew asked warily, a tingling sensation running along his spine. Surely Alfred didn't mean what he thought he meant?

"I don't know when I'll be able to see you again after tonight," the Celt used the act of setting down the cake and fussing over it as a distraction from his own nerves, "And maybe this is a little bit because my father threatened to lock me away in a tower if I try and pass off the throne. But mostly it's because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Because you've been so good to me, and you've trusted in everything that I told you – and you accepted me even after you found out that we're supposed to be enemies. And I'm pretty sure our father's had sex, which is just nasty. Most of all, I want it to be you. I want you to be my first. That or I can spend the rest of my life a virgin. I wanted to save this for our wedding night, but apparently that's completely out of the question," blue eyes met indigo, "So if my lips won't melt the Ice Prince, then maybe my body will?"

Alfred squirmed in the silence that followed his words. It dragged on far too long. Unable to stand it, the Celt blurted out, "If you don't want me, then just _say_ so, damn it! Don't leave me hanging."

Still not saying a word, Matthew began to undo the fastenings on Alfred's shirt. Once the fabric was hanging open, the Gaul's pale hands moved across the other prince's tanned chest. One hand lingered over a nipple, stroking over silky skin and teasing it into harness. The Celt shivered.

"I don't want you," Matthew breathed in the other prince's ear, pulling him closer into the circle of his arms, "I _need_ you. And the possibility of going the rest of my life without you terrifies me."

"Whoever gets the throne first-" Alfred's fingers imitated the Gaul's, opening the Northerner's shirt and caressing the dark lines of raised scar-tissue that ran from collarbone to navel.

"I shall always come for you," the prince of Gaul chuckled, his lips finding their way to the Celt's neck as their shirts dropped to the floor.

"There's an innuendo there that I'm not getting, isn't there?" Alfred rolled his eyes, the stain that flushed his skin spreading as Matthew kissed a path along his shoulder and down his chest.

"Soon enough, _mon amour_, you shall get it soon enough," there was still laughter in his voice, but the Celt ignored it because Matt's mouth had followed his fingers south and the Gaul's tongue was making him gasp and clutch at pale shoulders.

"Hot!" Alfred moaned in surprise as his betrothed sucked at his nipple, the heat of his mouth was a completely alien sensation. The Celt let out a strangled sound of pleasure as teeth dragged across the sensitive skin of his chest.

Together they fumbled towards the bed, Alfred's blood racing in his veins as hands that weren't his own pulled at the fastenings of his pants. Those same hands pushed the fabric from his body and when the backs of the Celt's knees hit the bed, one little nudge overbalanced him.

The breath woofed out of the blue-eyed prince's lungs and he looked up at Matthew; part excited and elated; part nervous. The Gaul seemed so much more powerful than he usually did as he hovered over the other man. Alfred wasn't sure if it was because he was naked, or because he was on his back, but somehow he didn't mind it. He was loved.

"How come I'm the only one naked here?" the Celt protested breathlessly as a pale hand pushed his thighs apart.

"That I may more thoroughly devour you," there was a dark light in Matthew's eyes and it made Alfred shiver happily, his nerves tingling pleasantly, "I promised you something, _mon_ _amour_. Do you recall?"

"You promised to make me beg," the words came out in a rushed gasp as Alfred felt himself hardening, squeezing his shut in embarrassment but making no move to cover himself, "You promised to show me why they're called the pleasures of the flesh."

"Perchance you hath dwelled on my words?" there was a wolfish grin in the Gaul's words, but his smile was kind, "I do recall also vowing to show you of what other things my whore's mouth is capable."

"Only a little," the Celt's smile was no less bright, if sheepish, "Will you show me?"

"Your word is my command, Highness," the darkness in those indigo eyes had spread to Matthew's voice as he hitched Alfred's legs up and apart, leaving him completely open to the Gaulish prince. Slow, soft kisses began at the inside of Alfred's knee and travelled steadily down along his thigh. About midway, the pale man paused, a curious thought having occurred to him.

"_Tu te masturbes_?" he asked the soft, golden skin of the Celt's inner thigh.

"Do I _what_?" Alfred was red in the face.

"Pleasure yourself," when this explanation drew only a blank look, Matthew's open palm brushed lightly against the half-hard shaft of his lover's cock, "Like so." His fingers closed around the stiff flesh, feeling it twitch and harden as he gave it long, steady strokes.

"_Noo_," the word was more groan than any other recognisable form of communication, and Alfred's head flopped back onto the bed, "Not if I could- _aah_!" his words trailed off as his Gaulish lover thumbed the head of his member, "Help it. Once or twice."

The Celt could feel the smug grin against his leg as those soft, too-warm kisses descended, "And pray tell, _mon amour_, do you like it?" he purred, tongue flicking out to taste the shaft of Alfred's cock. A sharp intake of breath was all the answer he needed.

"_Yes_," It was just the faintest exhalation. Alfred felt every muscle in his body tense and tremble in excitement and anticipation as Matthew's lips and tongue continued on their downward path, leaving a swirl of feelings behind them as they went. First an incomparable heat, burning and sizzling at his nerves closely followed by cold as his mouth moved on. Sensations that felt as though they could have shorted him out, deadened and numbed him only seemed to add to the fire, heightening each and every touch.

Heat closed around the head of his member and Alfred's back arched, a guttural moan ripping itself from his throat. "I," he panted, "I can see what you were talking about."

"Oh?" Matthew pulled back, settling so that the Celt's member was resting thick and heavy against his Adam's apple, letting the vibrations of his voice reduce his lover to incoherency, "But we have yet to begin at all. I have yet to show you but a fraction of the pleasure possible from such a union."

"You're killing me here, Mattie!" Alfred growled, hands fisting in red sheets – it seemed the prince was given free range over his personal décor, because it looked nothing like the rest of the palace. There were no rococo frills or baroque mouldings; just simple dark wood and red furnishings; the chief of which the Celt was now spread out on like butter on bread.

"I would sooner harm myself than you, _mon amour_," the Gaulish prince cooed teasingly, "Would you I were to cease?" he slowly began to ease himself away.

"_No_!" Alfred's hand shot out to catch Matthew's face in a surprisingly gentle grip, "No, please, Mattie. I want you. I _need_ you."

Turning his head slightly in the Celtic prince's grip, his Gaulish lover kissed the tanned palm before removing his hand. "And so you shall have me."

Any adjectives that the blue-eyed Celt could have come up with to describe the feeling of Matthew's mouth enveloping his cock were obliterated in the instant that it happened. Things such as 'heat,' 'tightness,' and, 'wet' lost all meaning, completely unable to compare to the sensation that raced through Alfred's nerves like wildfire. Through lust-hazed eyes, he looked down at the man between his legs and groaned. The picture the Gaul presented was too perfectly erotic; his hooded eyes meeting the Celt's and his lips bruised red and fitted around the thick shaft between them. Raising an eyebrow at his audience, Matthew pulled back just enough to tongue the head before hollowing his cheeks and swallowing him back down.

Alfred's lips parted in a breathless exclamation of pleasure. Every muscle in his body seemed to have been replaced with over-stretched elastic, rendering him utterly useless. An animalistic noise of frustration rent itself from the Celt's vocal chords as the Gaul's mouth removed its maddening heat and pressed it to the inside of his thigh.

"Mon amour," Matthew purred, lips descending to tease the other prince's sac, "How far can you stretch your leg?" To show what he meant, one pale hand stroked firmly up the back of Alfred's thigh, pushing it up toward his tanned chest. The Celt's hand settled over the other prince's encouraging to keep pushing until his knee was brushing against the bedspread.

"As far as you like. Naturally flexible." A sound of appreciation rumbled low in Matthew's chest as he scraped his teeth over the swell of the Celtic prince's ass. Tender kisses worked their way down again and Alfred panted. His chest was rising and falling heavily and the beautiful flush of his cheeks had spread down to his chest; desire quickly claiming his body.

A tan-skinned body tensed for and instant and then relaxed completely, and Matthew took this as a sign that his beloved wasn't entirely opposed to rimming. The Gaul's tongue once more circled the other's tight entrance before slowly pressing in, thrusting shallowly. Alfred shifted and squirmed, unused to so much pleasure, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he struggled to grasp at words. Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the tongue was gone – as was Matthew – and the Celt say up, looking around for his lover with cloudy eyes.

The Gaul was across from him, rummaging briefly in a dark wood dresser. When he turned back to face the Celt, he was holding something and he looked hungry. He was also, Alfred noted with a jolt of electricity that made his cock twitch, quiet obviously aroused, even through his breeches.

Matthew's approach was measured and teasing, making the Celt on the bed groan impatiently and spread his legs in anticipation of his lover.

The bed dipped with the Northman's weight, and Alfred's breathe sped up as the pale prince took him up on his silent invitation; settling between his thighs. A cork's soft pop sounded distant and something sweet wafted through the hot air between them.

"Your breeches," the blue-eyed blond's voice was hoarse with want, "Take them off. Please. I want to see you."

A gentle smile lit Matthew's face as he set the bottle in his hands carefully aside and pushed the material from his hips. A strange mixture of heart-throbbing fear and voracious hunger filled Alfred as his eyes followed the cream fabric. The Gaul's member was fully hard, arching proudly against the pale skin of his stomach and touching it with precum.

Once more, the bottle made an appearance, and indigo eyes locked onto blue, drawing the golden prince in so much that he started slightly when a slick finger pressed against his entrance, following the trail his tongue had blazed earlier. The tip of the Gaulish prince's finger thrust gently in and out, steadily pushing deeper and stretching wider. The process was torturously slow; one finger after another. The strange pressure in Alfred's lower back built and changed until it was something that could possibly be called pleasure. After that, it didn't take long for the Celtic prince to meet his lover's fingers. Giving a delighted gasp, he repeated the action; meeting the thrust with his hips.

"Aah! Mattie, yeah, juh- _Oh_!" A flicker of lightning-bolt pleasure lit up his nervous system. A hooded smile painted Matthew's lips as he thrust his digits into that spot again, curling them over the place that made Alfred's toes curl. Just as the Celt was getting really into it, the hand was gone. He was about to protest when he saw the Gaul's hand curl about his own cock, leaving it slick with oil as he stroked.

"Relax, mon amour," Matthew breathed, leaving a trail of gentle kisses up the other blond's neck. One deep, shuddering breath later, the Celtic prince felt the head of his beloved's length easing past his entrance. Relaxing was, as most things tend to be, easier said than done, and the Gaul had to stop twice to let Alfred adjust to the girth of his member.

"So full," the Celt moaned, eyes hazy and half-mast, "God, Mattie- so fuh-_aah_!" his words were cut off as two of Matthew's fingers joined his cock inside Alfred, curling up to stroke over the other prince's pleasure centre. "Ah! A-_aah_~ Ma- Oh _fuck_! _Matthew_!"

Deeming his lover suitably acclimatised to the length inside him, the Gaul pulled out slowly and pushed back in again at an equally sedate pace; falling into an easy rhythm of languid thrusts while pinning one of the other's legs to the bed for deeper access. Alfred clutched at his prince's shoulders, gasping in pleasure as both Mattie's fingers and cock brought him closer and closer to the edge of his release.

Chanting the Gaul's name like a prayer, the blond Celt looked up with love-drunk eyes to the flushed face above him, sheened with sweat. Matthew's lips were kiss-bruised and parted, his hair curling damply at the tips, his brows pulled together over lust-darkened eyes that watched Alfred eagerly as his climax approached.

"Mattie," he breathed vision white and dancing with tiny pinpricks of black. He felt rather than heard the Gaul murmur his name right back as warmth filled his sated body still further.

Heavy with sleep, Alfred curled up to his lover as Matthew pulled a something he didn't know where from and tenderly wiped them both clean.

~====o)O(o====~

Francis peaked his head around the door quietly, afraid to wake the princes. Arthur had come to his door in a complete panic earlier (Which the Gaulish king thought a bit rude, given that his company had been flatly refused the previous evening) demanding to know if the Gaul had seen either of their sons. After a brief argument, it had been deduced that Matthew's room was the most logical location, given that they weren't in Alfred's.

Arthur, however, had no such qualms about waking the young lovers even if his temper did take a minute to boil over. A minute in which he could fully absorb the love marks on both boys, the way that they were tangled together, the way that Alfred's arms were laid with careless possession over Matthew's waist, and the way that the Gaulish prince's arms were draped protectively around the Celt's shoulders; his lips pressed against Alfred's blond hair.

"Get up!" He snapped, grabbing at the covers and pulling them off the sleeping pair, slightly sickened by the fact that they were so intimately tangled and quite blissfully naked. It was obvious what had happened.

Groggily, Matthew pulled Alfred closer to his chest as Alfred – more immediately alert – slapped his back lightly in an effort to wake him up.

"Mattie, _Mattie_! Our dads are here," he hissed, earning a few owlish blinks and a pair of wide indigo eyes as realisation set in. After that, it didn't take fifteen seconds to get them up and standing; a sheet pulled from the bed wrapped around both their waists to preserve some form of modesty.

"You," Arthur's words were trembling with rage, "Have deliberately flouted the law I laid down. You have broken our traditions. You have insisted on bedding this… barbarous brat," he spat the words as though he could think of no worse epithet. Unable to get anything else out, much though he might try, the king seized his son's arm, yanking him forward. Matthew remained where he was, but let the sheet go with Alfred. The Celt took a few limping steps forward and Arthur looked like he was trying to shit a six storey castle with moat, dungeons and a turret with a view. He wasn't stupid enough to miss what that limp meant. He knew that they had done the deed, but he was still absolutely livid that his son had been on the receiving end.

The Celtic prince's face was drawn and pale, "Whoever is crowned first," he said quietly, and Matthew smiled tenderly, as though Alfred was the only other person in the room.

"I shall always come for you. Should I have to destroy your kingdom and mine brick by brick to find you."

"Your brat speaks of treason," Arthur hissed coldly tugging Alfred towards the door by his arm.

Francis cast an apologetic look first to the prince of Albion and then to his own son,

"No, he speaks of love."


	13. A Rose By Any Other Name Would Inherit

"Prithee, Arthur, tarry but a moment longer that we may speak," Francis called as he and Matthew stalked after the departing royals. Matthew caught hold of Alfred's fingers and clung to them, jogging along beside his beloved, who was wincing with every too-quick step.

He didn't apologise, he didn't have to. One glance at the look on his face was all it took to see that the Gaulish prince was up to his eyeballs in sorry. Both princes were in various stages of undress, not having been given very much time to dress before the King of Albion gave marching orders. At least everyone was wearing pants.

Francis' hand caught on Arthur's sleeve, and the green-eyed kind turned on his heel, his expression livid, "No, I won't tarry. I am leaving this castle and this country post haste; I am taking my son with me and you cannot stop me. I refuse to let him ruin his life over whatever games you and your foul seed have concocted. And if you so much as think of touching me again, I will launch a full-scale invasion!"

"Dad, dad, calm down, please," Alfred begged, swallowing back emotion after emotion as they threatened to overwhelm him, "Fine, okay? I'll go with you! Just leave Mattie alone. No invasion, no more yelling."

"Very well," Arthur said stiffly, the corner of his mouth twitching, "You may say your goodbyes." The princes' arms were around each other before he had even finished speaking.

"Does this mean I am permitted my goodbyes also?" Francis asked, his voice subdued. The Celtic king turned his face away, not really wanting to face what was lying unspoken between them, but knowing he needed to. The Gaul had let him use the castle as a base of operations to search for his son, it wasn't Francis' fault that Alfred had decided to go joy-riding with Matthew. Of all the ways a son could defy his father; of all the ways a prince could defy his king. Sure, Alfred thought himself in love now, but what about three years from now when the glow of first infatuation had well and truly died away and the young prince had foolishly severed all connections to his family and was unhappily tied to some boorish brute? It was one of the main reasons that he'd never tried to rope Alfred into any kind of politically motivated betrothal.

"I see no reason why you shouldn't speak," neither king was looking at each other, choosing instead to look at their sons, who were still locked in a close embrace.

"_Ma cher_," his words were slow and measured, "When a man is a father, he comes into possession of a second heart. The first he gives unreservedly to his children. The second is but a trifle of the size and lesser to his own mind, but this second, secret heart holds his own desires. Do not starve your second heart of, for it is as of as great import to your health as the first."

"I'm in no mood for riddles-"Arthur began tiredly.

"And I in no mood to speak sense to a man who will not see't," Francis said flatly, "There is no man on earth that should begrudge his children true happiness, and no child who should deny their father that same should he think to seek't. I should think you and yours would do as ought, Arthur."

"When a man is king, then it is more than just his family that is his own, but his people too, and what he ought to do and what he wants are so far apart that they are in opposite corners of the earth, and what he ought is what will be done," the Celt ground out through gritted teeth.

Francis sighed heavily, "May I have hope at least that you shall return when your heart again beats full proud in that stubborn chest?"

"You may hope," Arthur just wanted to get out of this place and sort through everything. Hopefully Alfred would stop looking at this situation through the light of infatuation and everything would settle back to normal without his son hating him for all eternity, "Though I suspect it may be misplaced." Again, the two kings turned to look at their princes,

"The thought of your absence fills me with more cold than any courtly epithet could bestow," Matthew sighed, running his fingers through Alfred's hair as Alfred's hands came up to cup his cheeks.

"Then I'm just going to have to defrost you again, aren't' I?" he laughed, not as carefree as he has been this time yesterday.

"I should be a blessed man to twice charm the summer to my court," the Gaul chuckled weakly, and Alfred just kissed him softly.

"There's no summer without winter."

Arthur coughed, "We must be going, now, Alfred. Your Majesty, Your Highness," he bowed to Francis and Matthew, "Many thanks for your hospitality."

"Bye, Mattie," the prince waved, not having the strength to be formal.

"_Au revoir, mon amour_," the pale prince whispered back.

And before either of them were sure that the parting had been final, the airship was sailing high above the clouds, taking Alfred and Arthur with it.

~====o)0(o====~

"Dad's worried about you," Amelia said, plonking herself down on her brother's bed, making his prone form bounce.

"Don't care," Alfred said into his bed-sheets, his voice muffled and thick through the linen.

"I'm worried about you. You disappeared for a month and a half and you come back completely different. You don't laugh, you don't smile; Alfie, I don't think I've seen you touch your food all week. What happened?" the princess laid a hand on her brother's back, "Dad said you were kidnapped?"

"Liar," the prince spat, his head jerking up from the mattress, "I went with Mattie of my own free will. Well, okay, he did sort of kidnap me at first, but then he said he'd take me home after it stopped raining, and I'd gotten to know him by then. He's gorgeous, Amie, and strong, and kind and wonderful and he loves me. And I love him," Alfred sighed, rolling over onto his back to stare dreamily at the canopy of his four-poster.

"Whoa, okay," Amie said, slightly taken aback, "Who is this guy, and why do you get to all the fun?"

"Heir Apparent to the kingdom of Gaul," he groaned, listing the one title of Matthew's he could remember, and the only one that really mattered. He flipped back over to press his cheek into the bed spread.

"Great Mother have mercy," Amelia whispered, eyes wide with shock, "What the hell were you thinking, Al? The prince of Gaul and you want to _marry_ him? Are you out of your tree?"

"I gave myself to him," he said conspiratorially, face red, "And it was the best night of my life."

"_Alfred_!" the princesses breathed, aghast.

"I don't care, Amie," Alfred said, face and voice filled with longing, "He was so gentle with me, and so kind. He almost died trying to protect me. He swore on his own life that he'd never forget me. I would give anything to see him again. I'd abdicate if I could, but apparently that's out of the question; dad won't let me."

"I guess I can kind of see why you don't want to talk to him. But couldn't you at least eat something?" the princess pressed, more than slightly concerned for her brother's well-being.

"I should. He'd want me to eat. But food just doesn't seem to taste the same. Everything's bland and tasteless. You know, he's a great cook," Alfred sighed, steering the conversation back in the direction of his favourite topic; Matthew.

Arthur closed his eyes, shaking his head from where he stood in the shadows of the doorway. Something had to be done.

~====o)0(o====~

"My lord, I am unfailingly aware that you have no taste for war games, but no dark angel shall bear you visitation should you indulge a little," Gilbert sighed, his bike neck and neck with Matthew's which was drifting aimlessly in no particular direction at all.

"Hmmm? Oh, quite. Should it vex you for me to abandon these trifles, Gilbert? I have no mind for them just yet," Even before he finished speaking, the prince's eyes were already meandering along the ridges of mountains far distant. Far and away to Albion.

"My Lord, a lunar cycle has waxed and waned in the time you spend mooning for your lost love of Albion. What good does it do the kingdom to see its future leader so cold and distant?" the albino groused.

"What good a king shall I be when my heart beats in the chest of another?" Matthew asked distantly. He knew Gilbert was right. He'd been increasingly more distant of late, increasingly more shut off from court life, and the rumour mill was working tirelessly to discredit him and make him seem unfit to rule.

A tall man pulled up beside, the albino, almost as pale; platinum blond and deathly pale, his eyes were a shade of violet to match Gilbert's red. Ivan; Gilbert's lover and the reason he had been so eager to get home in good time. Also the reason he hadn't been around at all for the first three days after their return, but that's for another time. They were well suited; the Visigoth loud and brash in his manner, and the Slav alarmingly quiet. They made quite a pair, and Matthew had to turn his eyes away. They were too good together to look at without his empty chest aching acutely.

"I'm to the palace," he sighed, not daring to look at the sickeningly happy couple, "Send word of the victor that I may congratulate them at my leisure."

Ivan looked at Gilbert, and Gilbert looked right back, "Something must be done."

~====o)0(o====~

"How is he?" Arthur asked wearily, his chin resting in his hands.

"Still not talking to you," Amelia reported dutifully, "Eating because he has to, and alternately talking about his beloved Matthew or staring wistfully out a window. Which I thought only princesses were supposed to do. Heck, I wouldn't do that, and I am a princess!"

"You've yet to taste the fruit of love, Amelia," the king explained patiently, making his daughter cringe and squirm.

"Eww, dad, do you have to say it like _that_? Ugh, make it sound more squicky, why don't you?"

"Fine, fine. You know what, Amie?" Arthur said suddenly, straightening as though an idea had just struck him, "I think if we had more guests over, maybe Alfred wouldn't be so down. He'd have to come out of his room and socialise. And we're definitely not formal enough. You two need to practise being introduced by your full titles."

"Oh, God, dad," Amelia groaned, throwing her hands up despairingly, "Why do you hate me?"

"To the contrary, dear heart, I love you and your brother very much."

~====o)0(o====~

"I can't believe he's making us do this at breakfast," Amelia grumbled sourly, still not quite awake. Alfred sighed, his thoughts in a land far removed from this one, where he and Matthew were holding hands.

"Your Majesty, High King Arthur of Albion, on Whose Empire The Sun Never Sets, Lion of The Realm, Conqueror of All He Surveys, Lord of the Four Kingdoms, Tamer of the Picts, Ruler of the Wodes, Slayer of Barbarian Kings and Dragons alike, I humbly present to you your Royal Children; Her Royal Highness, Distaff Inheritor Elect, Crown Princess Amelia the Beautiful, Jewel of Albion, Duchess of New England and Heir to the Throne and your son, Alfred." With every word, the Celtic prince flinched, "His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Alfred, Southern Wolf, Eagle of Albion, Tamer of Beasts, Duke of Montana and Lord of fife York."

Alfred blinked and slowly mouthed the titles they had been introduced by. Turning a slowly spreading grin to his father, he tried to speak, to say thank you, but couldn't manage it.

Arthur nodded his acknowledgement, smiling.

-))0((-

**A brief note to those who don't get it;**

**Matthew is an Heir Apparent. Nothing short of death and the collapse of the monarchy will stop him from being king.**

**Alfred was simply named heir to the throne. He can choose to cede (pass on to the next in line) or abdicate (cut all ties to the royal family completely and never be associated with them again.) Neither of these things happen often, for obvious reasons. **

**Amelia was previously a Distaff Inheritor (female in line for the throne) but is now Distaff Inheritor Elect (basically the chick next in line for the throne; Alfred's been pushed down the list.)**

**There was a reason I mentioned my tumblr post about titles last chapter.**


	14. Please Get My Macbeth Reference, Please!

Arthur sighed wearily. He'd been having the same conversation with his son upwards of six times a day for almost a week now, "Just because you are no longer next in line to the throne, Alfred, does not mean that you can go running off to see your…. Your…"

"Lover," Alfred provided smugly, and his father winced.

"Please. It was bad enough that I had to see you like that. I really don't need to be reminded every five minutes that you let that boy …" he grappled with his words, determined to finish the sentence he had started but rather unable to do so without reliving the experience – something he definitely did not want to do, "_Deflower_ you."

"Betrothed, then," Still, Arthur grimaced, not entirely sure of where he stood on the issue of this 'betrothal'.

"Fine. But like I said, just because you're no longer my successor does not mean that you can go gallivanting off to Gaul at the drop of a hat. Your uncles are coming around tomorrow, and we're expecting dignitaries and royalty from another five kingdoms while they're here, so I do rather hope that you intend to stay here for the party. And should you even _think_ of running away this time," it was an unfortunate trait of the High King of Albion that he tended to get a bit shouty when engaged in passionate conversation, and there was very little that brought out his loud nature like his children, "Then you will wish that you _had_ abdicated!"

"Argh! This is so unfair! _I hate you_!" Alfred stalked out of the throne room in high dudgeon, hands clenched in the air, as though he were throttling an invisible neck.

Head in his hands, Arthur groaned, "And he wonders why I think he's not mature enough to be in love?"

~====o)0(o====~

"A six-month has passed, Matthieu," Francis sighed, one hand on his son's shoulder as they both looked out through the diamond-faceted window across their kingdom and away across to Albion, "Perchance they have forgotten us?"

"My Alfred will not have forgotten me," the prince answered, voice soft but ringing with certainty, "I can only hope that we shall not be parted much longer. I have no fear of his love waning, but I have little hope of High King Arthur respecting our promises to each other."

"Think not so unkindly of the king. He wishes only for the safety of his son, as I wish for mine," there was a softness to Francis' tone, and a sigh to his words that made Matthew look up from his pensive view of the mountain pass that separated Albion from Gaul,

"It is most unlike yourself, Papa," he said slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "To hold such sentimentality for a lover."

A rueful smile graced Francis' lips, "The men of Albion are most enchanting, are they not?"

"Papa," Matthew most sorrowfully did sigh, "You do not mean to tell me that not only have you bedded the father of my betrothed but you hold affections for him also?"

"Not since your mother have I felt myself so consumed with adoration for another," Francis answered without a hint of remorse, "Though I do feel he is less than pleased with the present standing between our families. Was it really of utmost necessity that the pair of you consummate your desires then?"

"Twas no intention of mine but his," the Princes said, a little snippily, "Alfred had been most adamant that we should remain chaste until wedlock. When that option was removed, he thought to offer himself to me rather than remain in eternal virginity."

"And had you not thought of the political ramifications of your actions, my son? In your lust you could have started a war between our kingdoms. One we can little afford," It wasn't often that Francis felt the need to scold his son; it wasn't often that Matthew needed it. And it was rarer still that he could do so without having his own misdeeds brought to light.

"_Père_, imagine a moment that you had been in my place and that it was your dearest King Arthur who sought your chambers in the dead of night, pleading with soft and thoughtful words for a physical token of your love. Would you have denied him?" The prince knew he had his father in a corner when the king harrumphed and turned away a little.

"Arthur has no words that may be mistaken for softness, though should he have, I cannot say I would have acted any differently in your situation," he relented.

Rather than saying anything so crude as the medieval equivalent of 'I told you so!' Matthew returned his gaze to the window, letting the silence steep between them like tea.

"Matthieu, I have a request to make of you," Francis said suddenly, and Matt suspected that this might have been the whole reason his father had struck up a conversation to begin with. The King of Gaul never made his motives obvious at first.

"_Ouais, Papa_?" the prince answered lightly, knowing that the pronunciation was irritating to the other, but not minding in this instance.

"My presence has been requested at a royal celebration, a wedding, I believe, in one of our neighbouring Kingdoms. Now, I realise that perhaps this is not the kindest request I could make, given the delay to your own nuptial, but I find myself to have had disagreements past with one of the attendees, a rather powerful Lord, and I would be most grateful if my prince regent would fill my shoes as, as it were?" the king's expression was so earnestly hopeful that Matthew couldn't help but sigh and nod.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he said wearily, and Francis beamed.

"Garb yourself in a manner befitting of our court. Something blue."

~====o)0(o====~

A man knelt in the middle of the of the stone floor, a claymore at his kilted side. He was very similar to Arthur in his appearance, though his hair was a shocking shade of red, and his eyebrows were slightly narrower – if darker.

"Presenting His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Kirkland, Thane of Glamis and Thane of Cawdor, Laird of Castles Duncan and Powrie, Champion of the Highlanders, True Ruler of the Picts and Most Valiant in Battle to his esteemed brother; His Majesty, High King Arthur of Albion, on Whose Empire The Sun Never Sets, Lion of The Realm, Conqueror of All He Surveys, Lord of the Four Kingdoms, Tamer of the Picts, Slayer of Barbarian Kings and Dragons and his Royal offspring, Her Royal Highness, Distaff Inheritor Elect, Crown Princess Amelia the Beautiful, Jewel of Albion, Duchess of New England and Heir to the Throne and His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Alfred, Southern Wolf, Eagle of Albion, Tamer of Beasts, Duke of Montana and Lord of fife York." Alfred didn't envy the bard his job, not when it involved memorising all their titles. He knew his father wasn't likely to try and behead him if he got anything wrong, but Geoffrey didn't and was sweating like a pig for it.

"Alfie! Amie!" Alistair bellowed, straightening up from where he had been kneeling on the flagstone floor, "Come give yer Uncle a hug! Ah have nae seen ye since ye's was wee bairns!"

Obligingly, Amelia picked up her skirts and hurried over to the Highlander, flinging her arms around him, "Uncle Ali, Uncle Ali, did you hear?" she gushed, her crinoline forcing her to bend over so that she could hug him properly, "I'm going to be Queen!"

"An a faine wee Quin ye shall make, lass," he said, patting her hair affectionately. Alfred's approach was more sedate – as was everything about him since he had returned from Gaul. He'd been distinctly lacklustre since then, and Arthur was going out of his mind with worry.

"Hi, Uncle Alistair," the prince offered a half smile and a hand to shake when Amelia pulled back, only to be pulled into a breath-robbing, back-slapping hug.

"Alfie, ye wee devil! Ye've been a busy lad! Ah had heard tha' ye snuck yer way tae Gallia an bedded Auld Francy's bairn. Tell yer auld Uncle Ali tis so?"

"Aye, Uncle, tis so. Ah had meself a right wee adventure," He may not have been behaving quite like himself, but Alfred did like to show off a little when given the opportunity, and showing his Uncle his gift of tongues was definitely an opportunity.

"Guid Laird, lad!" Alistair gaped, pulling back, the wode on his face making strange shapes as his expression changed to one of surprise, "Whit hae have ye been practisin'? Ah ken well tha' Arthur dinnae teach ye tae speak as such!"

"Alfred drank dragon's blood," Amelia chimed in, flouncing her skirts a little, "He's been doing that since he go back. It's really annoying."

"A drac!" the Highlander thought he might have to make surprise his new default expression, at least around his niece and nephew, because they never failed to amaze, "A gand auld adventure indeed, lad. Ye have tae tell me aboot it."

"Aye, ah, will, Uncle," Alfred's smile was more than a ghost for the first time in months.

"Ye two, gae awn ahaed, yer Pa an meself hae matters o' Kingin' tae discuss," Alistair shooed the prince and princess out of the throne room and turned to face Arthur, "Greetins tae ye also, wee brother."

"And to yourself, Alistair. Must you insist on bearing arms in my court? And for God's sake scrub that muck off your face. You're in a castle, not on a battlefield," the High King sniped, his tone weary.

"Same as ye e'er was," the Highlander groused, smiling fondly.

~====o)0(o====~

"My sincerest apologies for your lack of reception, Your Highness," the blonde girl smiled winningly at Matthew as he exited the airship, feeling slightly queasy, "But with all that's going on tomorrow, we're a little lacking on fanfare."

"There's no need to apologise," the Gaul said, returning the smile, though it was several watts lacking in brightness, "I have no need for pomp and circumstance." Especially not when he felt ready to hock his guts. He understood now Alfred's aversion to hover bikes. It had been his first trip on an airship, and he had spent it lying face down in his cabin, groaning periodically.

"If I may ask," she said, her eyes sliding just to Matthew's left, looking for someone, "Where is His Majesty?"

"His Majesty is unavoidably detained and sends his most sincere regrets, and his Regent to stand in his stead," the blond prince recited dutifully, Before he might have thought this girl pretty, might even have been tempted to charm her to bed, but now – what with her blonde hair and blue eyes – she only served to remind him of Alfred.

"I see," she pursed her lips, "And you have brought no Lady Love to stand beside you at this joyous occasion?"

"No," It was almost as if she was aiming to provoke him.

"Have you a need of one?" There was a coy little smile on her lips as her eyes ran across him, and Matthew fought back the urge to shiver.

"I have brought no love for my own lies far from me, and his absence weighs heavily in my heart. I could not replace him with another." Much to Matthew's surprise, the girl beamed happily, clapping her hands, before motioning for him to follow.

"I'd heard rumours that the Ice Prince of Gaul had lost his heart to a Celt, but I didn't believe them until now!" Sighing, the prince hung his head and followed her inside. Rumours did travel fast.


	15. Happily Ever After

**Well folks, this is it. The culmination of this fic. This fanfic has taken countless hours of research and has been a real labour of love (no, really, I'm not kidding). It represents three months, over three hundred cups of tea, a tattoo on my back and my enrolment in university. This chapter alone has taken seven hours of research and requires no fewer than twenty-eight citations (none of which are websites) and was fuelled by about seven cups of tea. I have researched titles, crowns, climates, dragons, spells, tribes, swords, clothes, beldams, nagas, speech patterns, regional accents, appropriate jewellery and customs to name but a few.  
I would like to thank my mom and dad, who helped me research this (and who will never, **_**ever**_** read it)and who just happen to have volumes on the history of weaponry and the treasures of Great Britain in the living room, my sister, who got so bored with me rattling on about it that she started humming whenever I opened my mouth. My lovely girlfriend for advice on writer's block. Woodbyne, for letting me ramble and insisting that I write and posting when I capped my internet – as I have done now. To every single person who read or reviewed this story, you give me the support to keep writing. And last, but certainly not least, Anon007, without whom this story would never have existed in the first place. This was **_**not**_** what I expected when I told her I took requests. I regret nothing. I hope I haven't disappointed.**

~====o)0(o====~

"I do hate parties," Alfred moaned as Amelia rifled through his wardrobe – she had insisted on making sure that he was presentable. He hadn't objected because he knew full well that in his present state, he was as likely to make an effort as he was to get struck by lightning on this clear summer's day.

"Suck it up, Al, we haven't had this many royals floating about the palace since ever, so you might as well enjoy it," the princess said, throwing a pair of hose at him. They matched the shirt she'd thrown in his direction a few minutes earlier, not quite white, more of a cream colour. They were nice, all in all, but Alfred didn't really care.

"We're only missing the one that counts," he mumbled, fingers drawing idle patterns on the bed sheets.

"For goodness sake, Alfred, your 'Oh, Woe is me, myself and I' attitude is getting seriously old," she sniffed, pulling a red doublet out of the wardrobe, "How about this one?"

Looking up, the prince wrinkled his nose. Red and gold were the colours of their court, but for some reason the red, at least, had never looked as good on him as it did on Amelia, and certainly not in a full doublet. There was so much more to be said for dresses.

"Yeah, somehow I didn't think so," A sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth, "Oh my God, Al, I know just the thing!" turning her back to him, the princess once more began to root through his clothes, half falling into the carved wooden container, her petticoats visible as she tipped slowly over.

As if by magic, she righted herself and turned around, a grin on her face and a pale blue doublet in her hands. It wasn't something Alfred had seen amongst his clothes before, and he suspected that she might have made it especially for the party.

"How did you know that was my favourite colour?" he asked teasingly, eyes running appraisingly over the gold trim and the faint, slightly darker pattern of vines that decorated the sleeves.

"Because you won't shut up about it," Amelia answered cheerily, flinging the garment at him, only to have a waistcoat appear in her hands almost immediately. This one was the same cream as the shirt, but it was covered in the same pattern of vines as the sleeves of the doublet, only this time in gold. This too, she lobbed at his face before wriggling in her skirts and heading for the door,

"Uncle Ali's going to come in in a minute and help you dress," she said, patting her brother's head as she passed, "I've left your ornaments out, too, don't forget your sword. I have to change out of this stupid hoop skirt. That's one good thing I can say for occasions like this. Dad gets all traditional." Amelia giggled, and was gone.

Sitting up, Alfred sighed and stood. Sometimes he did wonder why it was that he couldn't get dressed himself – it would be quicker, for one thing – but Arthur had given him such a talking to about the honours of dressing royalty that he hadn't raised the subject again.

Thankfully, most of the servants were busy today, so it was only his manservant, Toris, Uncle Ali and a few others who weren't needed elsewhere.

Alfred kept his eyes to the ceiling, as co-operative as he possibly could be, as he was stripped down and redressed. Up until six months prior, he had felt no shame in this morning ritual. But now he couldn't help but think of Matthew, and wondered vaguely if he was betraying his beloved Gaul.

"Och, lad ye be lookin' bonny an' braw," Alistair smiled fondly, straightening the shoulders of Alfred's doublet as the servants filed silently out of the room.

"Ah see nae reason fir me tae be fancied up like a fair-day nag," the prince grumbled as a heavy gold collar was settled about his shoulders.

"Dinnae fash yerself, laddie," the Highlander shrugged, "Sometimes ye just hae tae follow yer gaes and see where it takes ye."

"Follow my gaes?" the blond asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Aye, yer gaes… yer fate, Ah guess," Alistair's expression was still nonchalant and Alfred's frown deepened.

"Uncle Alistair," he said with uncharacteristic severity, "Why would I have to follow my fate at a party?

"Nae reason a'tawl, laddie," the redhead said blithely, fastening the young Celt's belt and straightening the scabbard of his sword, "Ah was just gabbing, ye ken?"

Next was Alfred's coronet, a heavy gold band, about an inch wide that never failed to exacerbate the fact that his hair stood up in places that it shouldn't. Amelia was much luckier with hers. After that it was arm bands; beaten and etched, they were pushed up over the sleeves of his doublet to just above his bicep on both sides.

"An that 'un's mine, ye ken? Dinnae lose it, Ah want it back," Alistair stood back to admire his good work.

"This is a ball," Alfred was staring into space, "Dad's trying to find some princess for me to marry so that I can't be with Mattie. Uncle Ali, he can't do this! I won't, I won't I won't!"

"I _said_ dinnae fash yerself," the Highlander repeated, two hands landing heavily on the prince's shoulders, his face stern beneath his ceremonial swirls of blue wode, "Ah wouldnae put it past yer Pa tae do sommat like that. But I ken he kens what he's doin. Ah trust him, an sae should ye."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that," the Celtic prince muttered, looking shiftily around the room, feeling more weighed down by his finery than he ever had in armour.

"Lessee," Alistair muttered, more to himself that Alfred, "Auld, new, borrowed, blue, ah!" rummaging in a deer-pelt pouch, he pulled put a silver coin and flipped it into one of the prince's shoes. He then produced a tiny, red silk square and tossed it into the other one, "That aught tae do the trick."

"What the hell?" the blond was getting more and more confused by the minute, but despite his further inquiries, the Highlander ignored him, simply putting the finish touches on him and steering the prince out of his chambers and through the palace.

~====o)0(o====~

"You really are quite a looker," the same girl as before lead Matthew through the crowded hall and up to a raised dais at the far end, "But you should smile more."

The Gaul tugged nervously at the dark blue sleeve of his doublet, internally thanking the smith back at his home castle who had tightened the silver coronet he was wearing; it had always been a bit too big, "Much thanks to you, milady, tis most gracious of you to offer such compliments, and I shall make note of your suggestion at once," he intoned, largely distracted by where she was leading him, "Had my father informed me that he was to be a groomsman, I should not have so readily agreed to his request."

"Maybe so, maybe not," the girl said ambiguously, moving to the other side of the alter and pulling a tiara from a standing floral arrangement, frowning his puzzlement, Matthew turned his face back to the other end of the hall, where the doors were closing and all the guests were settling down. As his eyes roamed, they alighted on familiar faces. Why, at least half of the Gaulish court had to be there…

"Ah, Matthieu, you were but a hair from late, _mon fils_!" a quietly excited voice whispered in his ear. Francis stood beside him in full royal regalia.

"Papa?" the confused prince asked, "Prithee what madness unfolds? I am escorted here by a princess to replace you, only to find you by my side and-" Matthew's eyebrows shot up as he noticed the man standing just beyond his father.

Gilbert waved.

"_Père_, what is the meaning of-?"

And then the doors opened.

~====o)0(o====~

"He's awl yers, Arthur," Alistair sighed, giving Alfred a little push towards his father and walking off.

"Dad, what's the meaning of all this?" Arthur, too was done up to the nines in royal finery, this time in the Celtic colours of red and gold. His own crown was heavy, Alfred knew from his time spent playing with it as a child, but the green-eyed man wore it with sombre sovereignty.

"Nothing to worry about, Alfred," the king smiled, his lips pursed as though he were biting something back, and from the look on his face, it might have been tears, "You know I love you, son, don't you. I know that it might not seem like it at times. Being a single parent is difficult. But I love you, and I only want what's best for you."

"That's really not helping. I'm actually a little bit afraid now," the prince leant away some, but Arthur pulled him back, fussing over his collar and his hair.

"Don't be. This is a day to be happy," carefully he opened a dark wood box that had been sitting on a low, carved table. Out of it, he produced a thick rope of plaited gold; it was twisted into a circle, almost but not quite fully closed. Under closer inspection, the ends of the rope were made of many tiny, spidery gold suns, their fiery rays melding into the rope. Reverentially, Arthur raised the torque and settled it around his son's neck, "Usually, there would be a little more ceremony, but we find ourselves to be short of time."

"Dad? I love you, too, but can you please tell me what's- "

And then the doors opened.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred hissed in surprise. He drew himself back and _hissed_.

After a moment of realising that everyone in the hall was staring at him, he calmed down enough to take a look at his surroundings. This was a _wedding_. He was dressed up to the nines for a _wedding_ in which he appeared to be the bride.

He was a split second from turning to his father, throwing the torque in his face and storming out when he saw who was standing at the altar.

"Mattie," he breathed, his whole face lighting up. Ecstatic, he turned to his father, who was smiling fondly and holding out his arm, "Dad…"

"Let's go Alfred. Don't keep him waiting," Arthur still looked like he was choking back emotion.

"Thank you. Dad, thank you so much," it was all Alfred could do to stop his smile wobbling.

Minstrels in the gallery above them began to play and sing, a slow, sombre tune. Taking the King's arm, the prince began the walk up the aisle. His legs felt completely boneless and if it hadn't been for Arthur beside him, he might have fallen over. Arthur felt the exact same way.

Once they reached the dais, the music stopped, and with a visible reluctance, the King of Albion left his son to stand at the head of the hall. He cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. If anything could be said for Arthur Kirkland, it was that he had a remarkable authorative presence.

"Friends, welcome. We are here today to celebrate the union of two men. Two kingdoms. Two souls who have found each other. On this day we have gathered to witness their bond under the most sacrosanct of vows; that of matrimony. On this day, the Crown Prince of Gaul wishes to be bound in wedlock, who will stand for him?" It was a ritual as old as time, and one that Alfred had witnessed time and time again, but he couldn't help but feel that he was dreaming. It was too good to be true. Matthew couldn't possibly be standing across from him, holding his hand, smiling so wide his cheeks must ache.

"Will stand for my Lord," A familiar voice rang from beside Matthew. Alfred couldn't be bothered to check, but it sounded like Gilbert.

"And who are you to stand for him?" Arthur challenged.

"I am Gilbert Beilschmidt, General of the Gaulish Sovereign Army and best man of my Lord," the Visigoth's voice rang loud and clear through the hall.

"Then speak."

"My Lord is heir to the Kingdom of Gaul, whose lands extend far across the seas. He has much land and riches to offer; a life of comfort and security. He is skilled with both sword and glave and is well equipped to defend his intended. He has both honour and glory, a valiant fighter he has thrice lead an army to battle and thrice lead it to victory. I say let him be wed if he should wish it so. He will a fine husband make." Gilbert sounded like he was gloating, but that might just have been his usual tone of voice.

Arthur nodded and continued, "On this day the Prince of Albion wishes to be bound in wedlock. Who will stand for him?"

"I shall speak for my brother," a woman's voice rang out from behind Alfred, and he would have been tempted to swivel and gawp at Amelia had he been able to tear his eyes away from Matthew.

"And who are you to stand for him?"

"I am Crown Princess Amelia of Albion, sister to the Prince and next in line to the throne," she was never going to get sick of throwing that line around. Ever. Not until she was crowned Queen.

"Then speak," for a moment, Arthur's voice wavered, but was quickly righted.

"My brother, too has lands to offer; the Duchy of Montana and the Fiefdom of York. He is greatly skilled with swords and lances. He has the gift of tongues and is peerless in his needlework. He has fought in a score of battles and emerged victorious in all. He has a gift for healing and for defeating beasts of lore. I say let him be wed if that is what he wishes; he will make a fine consort," Amelia, too, sounded more smug than she had any right to.

"Then is there any present who would object to the joining of these two hearts?" For all his own obvious reluctance to the whole ordeal, the King of Albion was subconsciously _daring_ anyone in the hall to say anything that might so much as delay the wedding by a minute.

The silence that filled the huge room was profound. No one moved. No one blinked, just in case blinking might be seen as an objection.

"Then do you, Matthew, Crown Prince of Gaul take Alfred as your Prince Consort?" again, Arthur's voice challenged the Gaul to say anything that wasn't yes, "In sickness and in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, so long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Matthew whispered fervently, his fingers squeezing tightly around Alfred's, indigo eyes never leaving sky blue, "Until death do us part and the next life reunites us. For as long as my soul shall be, I do."

"And do you, Alfred, Prince of Albion, take Matthew as your husband?" This time the king spoke with an undercurrent of 'you can say no if you want to', "In sickness and in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, so long as you both shall live?"

"I do, oh Mattie, I do. Forever and ever, I on my soul I do swear it!" Alfred's proclamation of love was much louder than Matthew's but neither seemed to notice or care. The Celtic king handed them a silver chalice of wine and a rosemary wand, and the Gaulish prince looked more than a little confused before Alfred dipped the plant into the drink. He took Matthew's hand and put it to the stem of the cup while he drank, keeping g his hand there when the other prince drank. Arthur relieved them of their goblet.

Reluctantly letting go of the Gaul's hand, Alfred mashed his lips together to stop himself snickering and carefully paced around his bridegroom seven times. It was the dumbest marriage ritual his father had ever told him about, and he had always scoffed at it, but he saw no reason why a little extra protection couldn't be afforded.

"Then as High King of Albion, I hereby pronounce you wed, and let no man tear this sacred bond asunder," he scrunched up his eyes, "You may kiss the Prince."

Matthew's pale hand caressed Alfred's tan cheek and another moment of silence passed between them before Alfred threw his arms around the Gaul's neck and kissed him full on the lips. Their mouths laughed, their noses bumped and the hall exploded into whoops and cheers.

~====o)0(o====~

The wedding party was in full swing. Food and drink eased conversation between the Gauls and the Celts and aside from a few creative interpretations; they seemed to be getting along quiet well. The dance floor was closely packed with people twirling in a complicated reel.

Alfred and Matthew were tucked into a corner, laughing and kissing, and seeming to be trying to teach each other dances from their respective Kingdoms, the fact that they had their arms around each other's waists making it difficult. Alistair popped up beside them and demonstrated a Highland jig. They tried to imitate him, only to trip over each other's feet and fall about laughing.

Arthur sipped on a goblet of wine, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of fondness and sadness. He had known that he would have to lose his children, but he had hoped that it wouldn't be so soon.

"Miserly though it may be of me, I do envy my son," Francis sighed. When he had appeared there, Arthur wasn't sure, and whether he was miffed at having his solitude he wasn't sure either. Perhaps if it hadn't been the Gaul, he might have been.

"Oh? You would begrudge your own child on his wedding day?" the other king said, taking another sip and sighing.

"He has the heart and hand of the one he loves, whereas I have only memories and idle fantasy. Those shall fade eventually," Francis' tone was so melancholy, longing for his lost love that Arthur was quite surprised that it wasn't sympathy that rocketed, red-hot and burning, through him. It was _envy_. Envy for a dead woman, which was completely irrational.

"I'm sure your Madeline would want you to find another love," the green-eyed King did his best to sound sympathetic.

"And so she would. And she would have loved to be here on her Matthieu's wedding day. He has her eyes. But her blessing amounts to nothing much when the man I love will not reciprocate my affections," the other man sighed, and Arthur wished the man who made Francis so forlorn was standing there, so that he could run him through.

"And who is it that spurns your attentions?"

"The father of the Prince Consort," Francis said, quaffing his own wine and pointedly looking anywhere but at Arthur.

The Celt blinked, and scowled. Looking around, he grabbed a decorative ribbon off the wall and seized the other King's hand.

"That won't do," Arthur grumbled, wrapping the ribbon about their hands while Francis looked on in mute bemusement. When he had a satisfactory knot, the Celt looked around for one of the floral arrangements, using his free hand to snag some of the uglier members of the botanical world and throw them to the floor in front of them.

"Yarrow… broom…marjoram… That should do it. When I say three, we jump over this, alright? One, two," Francis wouldn't have believed that Arthur looked nervous if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, "Three." Feeling rather stupid, the Gaul jumped over the pile of foliage with the Celt.

"Prithee, _cher_, what was the purpose of tha-?" his words were cut short when Arthur kissed him.

"We're married now," the High King said as he pulled away, his face getting redder and redder with every word, "If you want to be. It only works if you want to be married. Not our Kingdoms or anything, mind you, just us."

"And this is an official?" Francis asked, sceptically eyeing the mess of leaves and flowers they had leapt across.

"I am the bloody High King of Albion, I am wearing this sodding crown and I have pronounced us married," Arthur said, the twitch of his lips betraying his otherwise stern face, "How much more official do you need it to _be_?"

"Such romance, Arthur," the Gaul smiled, leaning in to kiss the other king properly.

~====o)0(o====~

"When I had set out to find myself a bride, I had not anticipated this," Matthew murmured, his face pressed close to Alfred's as they held each other close, watching their wedding party dissipate.

"Me neither. Did you know that they were planning this?" the other blond asked, feeling happier than he had done in months.

"I had not an inkling of the plot. Though I must say, it was rather well carried out," he smiled, kissing Alfred's cheek, his nose, his forehead, any skin he could reach.

"It was. After all that time searching for a queen, I hope you're not disappointed in your new consort?" Alfred chuckled as he rubbed their noses together.

"I could find no disappointment in the love of my Prince Bride," Matthew said, kissing his consort square on the lips. Since the invention of kissing, there have been six kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. And this one left them all behind.

And they all lived happily ever after.

_~The end.~_


End file.
